


Outlaw For An In-Law

by Kablob, mylordshesacactus



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, An Arranged Marriage AU Where They Don't Do The Enemies To Lovers Thing, Comedy of Errors, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Faunus!Robyn, It's An Absolute Clusterfuck Y'all, Light Angst, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kablob/pseuds/Kablob, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylordshesacactus/pseuds/mylordshesacactus
Summary: In a desperate bid to end a nascent rebellion without bloodshed, King James of Atlas & Mantle makes an offer of political marriage to its charismatic and extremely lesbionic leader.Hilarity, naturally, ensues.
Relationships: Marrow Amin/May Marigold, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood, Robyn Hill/Fiona Thyme
Comments: 339
Kudos: 480





	1. Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

**Author's Note:**

> Remember this post: https://mylordshesacactus.tumblr.com/post/190202108738/mylordshesacactus-listen-so-this-is-a-really
> 
> Jo: Listen. Listen. We know. But we're having so much fun, guys.
> 
> Alexis: So the setting here is mostly-Remnant, but an alternate version with renaissance politics and vaguely-different geography. Technology levels are still the same though, so it's like one of those BBC Shakespeare dramas where everyone's in modern clothing. But gayer.

James Ironwood, King of Atlas, gave a long, tired sigh and pressed two fingers to his temple.

As if he didn’t have enough problems without Dust shipments vanishing in the night. And the lost resources were the least of it. The damn woman was building an army down there, and he couldn’t even _blame_ her.

It was hardly a state secret how bad the poverty was in Mantle. Too many generations of rulers whose sole aim had been to leech every possible lien from the Dust mines, at whatever cost to their people, had left the Kingdom of Mantle just barely on the right side of desperate. Old Queen Fria at least, had been widely regarded as decent and honorable in her time, and she’d made the most of the mess she inherited. But her reign had been very, very long, and as her body and mind grew more and more infirm, her kingdom’s rule had fallen into the hands of the robber barons—both native and those from neighboring Atlas.

But Queen Fria had finally breathed her last months ago, and she left no direct heir. Her only son had died nearly two decades ago, along with his wife and infant son, in a horrible Grimm attack while traveling on a diplomatic visit to Mistral. And therein lay the root of James’s current problem, because her closest living relative was none other than himself. He’d known that, of course, but it had been a problem for another day, and maybe some other heir would be found, there were always rumors…

Maybe he’d just never expected the old woman to actually die.

But now King James I of Atlas was also King James IV of Mantle, and for some strange reason, the already-suffering people of Mantle were less than overjoyed at becoming an addition to his list of titles.

James was doing his best. But he had the kingdom of his birth to run—the kingdom he’d been _raised_ to run. Of course, of course he felt the weight of his obligation to Mantle; they were his people too, now. But his seat of power was in Atlas, his network and political acumen were tailored to Atlesian customs and expectations.

He _was_ trying. But it was slow, difficult to make any changes without infringing on the rights of established Atlesian citizens. And his attempts were _not_ made any easier by _rabble-rousers_ causing riots in the streets every other week, over simple things like public-assembly restrictions during periods of high Grimm activity. 

Those were just...standard practice. It wasn’t as if he _wanted_ to send in the military to reestablish order; but he couldn’t protect them from the Grimm if they kept gathering in large angry mobs, he couldn’t patrol the streets if they kept setting fire to security vehicles, he couldn’t sit down and take an in-depth look at intra-Kingdom tax policies if he was busy coordinating defenses for food and Dust convoys…

And if it had just been a general milling sense of discontent, he could have quelled that. And not by force, either, however loudly noblemen like Jacques Schnee might call for such measures. Desperate people did desperate things. The way to stop those acts was to make the people no longer quite so desperate.

Unfortunately, he appeared to have been _preempted._

No one was entirely certain where in the Gods’ good name Robyn Hill had come from. She’d completed her military training in Atlas, recruited from Mantle as a ranger candidate; the last Atlas knew, she’d graduated from the Academy with the qualifications to be made a full Huntress. Generally, at that point a foreign student who owed her training to the Kingdom would at least have accepted a five-year commission as repayment; but the Huntsman academies had strict policies about self-determination and such service was never _technically_ required.

So Robyn Hill had committed a serious faux pas, taken her certification and skills, and vanished back into her impoverished home kingdom. 

James sighed again, rubbing his face.

It was people like that who made his attempts at building strong alliances with the other Kingdoms so difficult. It _looked bad_ when foreign-born students came to Atlas, received top-tier military training their own homelands could not provide, then left without serving so much as a day in Atlas’ own defense. It certainly contributed to the perception of Mantle natives as untrustworthy and violent.

Detractors of the system talked scathingly about training their enemies’ militaries for them; and while anyone who’d ever actually _attended_ a Huntsman academy knew how ridiculous that was—Huntsmen and Huntresses received specialized training to battle Grimm, and less than ten percent of them outside of Atlas _ever_ joined a formal military—try explaining that to the people James Ironwood had to deal with on a daily basis.

And now a highly skilled Huntress, one whose combat style had been learned in Atlas’ own training program, who wielded a custom weapon forged free of charge in Atlas Academy’s facilities, was spearheading a rebellion.

If she’d only rebel against something _logical,_ it might be different, but Robyn Hill and her small but loyal band of followers didn’t even seem to have a second claimant in mind—though the more cynical analysts suggested herself. They seemed willing to settle for nothing short of James renouncing his second claim entirely! And as that was never going to happen…

A brief rap at the door to his study was all the warning he got before it swung open, admitting Clover Ebi with his usual level of humility.

“With all due respect, sir,” he announced to the room at large, “you really _do_ need to sleep.”

James couldn’t help but smile slightly. “It seems what I _need_ is better locks on my doors, guard-captain. I distinctly remember ordering _you_ to go to bed hours ago.”

“And, being a law-abiding citizen, the word of my King is law,” Clover returned cheerfully. “I was en route to my quarters as ordered when I apprehended a suspicious vagrant on the grounds and thought you should be informed. Sir.”

James glanced at the large black bird perched on Clover’s shoulder and tried desperately to keep a straight face. “And you brought me proof of our pest control problem several hours later. I’m glad to know I can always count on the efficiency of the Atlesian Royal Guard.”

“Ah, fuck off,” said the crow, sounding distinctly less annoyed than he normally would be at this hour. The bird stepped with great dignity onto Clover’s offered wrist, then fluttered to the ground. A flurry of feathers coalesced into the slightly rumpled form of James’ spymaster, and Qrow made a rude gesture at them both as he flopped onto a low couch.

Despite the fact that it was exactly what Clover wanted, James couldn’t resist setting the latest Mantle reports aside and turning his chair around.

“It’s good to see you again, Qrow,” he said softly.

Qrow waved a languid hand, but half-smiled. “Eh, you’d get sick of me if I didn’t leave every so often.”

“How bad is it?”

Heaving a sigh, Qrow rolled upright. He shook his head. “It’s not good. Could be worse, though. I wish I could tell you how she does it. The rebellion strikes aren’t random; they have a system, it’ll be in my report. Acceptable targets. Shipments with android guards over human or faunus, only government-subsidized shipments, and only necessities. And they’re receiving support from the White Fang.”

James’ head snapped up. “I thought we’d cleared out the White Fang.”

“Well, you didn’t. You drove them underground—deep underground. But if someone makes them believe they might have a chance this time...right now, they’re only sharing information. The Fang give Hill’s people access to their intel, and her inner circle access to the safe house network. But give her six more months, another year, to really win their trust, and she’ll be fielding _soldiers,_ James. Not sneak thieves, not bandits. The real deal.”

Clover crossed his arms and got a thoughtful look. “Qrow, isn’t your niece—”

“My niece,” Qrow interrupted, “would _kill me_ if I suggested she influence the Crown Princess of Menagerie, and she’d be right to. Besides,” he added dryly, “Menagerie’s Ambassador is always reminding us that there’s no proof they have _anything_ to do with how many of their supplies turn up in White Fang safehouses.”

“Right. How could I forget.” Clover shook his head, turning serious. “Sir, we’ve done our best not to escalate the situation in Mantle. But if we’re going to act at all, it needs to be now. We’re out of time.”

And just like that, James’ headache was back. They were right. He’d come to the same conclusion himself, the moment Qrow confirmed the timeline. If he allowed this rapidly escalating agitation in Mantle go unanswered, it wouldn’t be riots they faced—it would be armed uprisings. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people would die, Mantle and Atlesian alike.

Clover exchanged a look with Qrow, and his words were carefully measured when he spoke again. “Sir,” he said. “If you...want to maintain a holding pattern, and continue diplomatic efforts, I can coordinate with General Schnee. She can prepare a proportionate response, but the first move _can_ still be Mantle’s. Or…”

“It’s Hill,” Qrow confirmed quietly. “She’s everything to them. This is still a grassroots movement, they haven’t got a real chain of command in place yet. Or succession. I guess you risk creating a martyr, but...there’s no one in line to take her place. Not that everyone will even trust enough to listen to, let alone follow into gunfire. The whole thing will wither on the vine without her to lead it. But I can’t guarantee that’ll be true if we give them time to organize.”

He didn’t sound happy. Clover acknowledged that with a respectful nod.

“The royal guard can make it quick,” he said, subdued. “I know it was nobody’s first choice, sir. But for the sake of the greater good...and if we’re going to do that, it needs to be now."

James closed his eyes against the pressure.

Clover’s option was, objectively, the best. The life of one woman against all the lives that would be lost in a bloody rebellion she would never win—and not exactly an innocent bystander, either; Robyn Hill had known the risk she was taking. It would allow everyone time to cool down, time for Mantle to accept its change in leadership and for James himself to grow more familiar with the intricacies of its legal system.

He sighed one last time.

“...I can’t.” He opened exhausted eyes. “I can’t do it, Clover. Murder a woman for trying to free her homeland from the rule of a man I happen to know _intimately_ has bungled its administration? Just to secure my own position?”

Clover hesitated. “We... _may_ be able to take her alive, though I can’t guarantee it will be quietly. And I can’t promise there will be no collateral damage. She might listen to reason in custody, and it would at least leave her rebellion leaderless.”

“That’s almost worse!” James gave a mirthless laugh. “How long would we have to keep her locked in a cell to completely dissolve her movement? We couldn’t release her without risking going right back to the start; and we couldn’t hold her indefinitely without a trial. Which she would lose, because she’s blatantly committing treason! Lock her up for years only to have her executed in the end? She deserves better. I respect her tactics, even if I deplore her _strategy._ She’s meticulous about her targets; her raids have phenomenally low casualty counts; she hits food convoys and raw materials, and Qrow’s confirmed she redistributes those resources directly to the hardest-hit communities.”

“And she’s going to start a war,” Qrow confirmed dully.

“I know that. I do. But Mantle has suffered, and...her care for her people is genuine. And rare. If half the nobility of Atlas had a _quarter_ of her integrity...she’s reckless and idealistic, but she is a brave, honest, selfless Huntress, and—”

“For pity’s sake, James,” snapped Qrow. “Are you gonna assassinate the woman, or marry her?”

James opened his mouth to tell Qrow exactly where he could shove his sarcasm—and abruptly closed it.

After several unbroken moments of his king staring into space. Clover cleared his throat.

“Sir?” he asked, sounding concerned. “Did you...think of something?”

James opened and closed his mouth a few times before remembering how human speech worked.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I think I have.”

* * *

Coordination with the White Fang had _vastly_ expanded Robyn’s selection of boltholes and safe houses.

She tried not to take advantage of their generosity. Their goals were aligned, and the local chapter graciously assured her that she was a faunus, and a political activist, and that gave her every right to call on them for help. But both she and the Fang knew that their movements were not identical. She was trying to free Mantle, and faunus equality was an essential part of that freedom, but...well, she had to make alliances the White Fang would never normally make. And half her team was human, as well. Allowing any humans, even close allies, this much access to their secrets was a massive show of trust.

For all that Robyn was careful not to overstay their welcome, however...they _needed_ the safehouse network. And even she had never quite realized the extent of the underground Fang’s reach. Four people lying low in a one-bedroom apartment would only work if they were as close as Robyn’s team, but it was a surprisingly _nice_ apartment for all that.

“Tea?” May called from the kitchen.

Joanna and Robyn each raised a hand, frowning at their cards. Fiona was focusing too hard on the discard pile to register the question.

Finally, she said, “Sorry, Joanna,” and placed a two of palms on top of Robyn’s five.

“Bitch,” said Joanna cheerfully, tossing the two of lanterns down on top of it.

Robyn shook her head in mock despair. “Treachery from within my own ranks. Thus falls the Kingdom of Mantle.” At which point she pulled the two of peaks from her hand and placed it on top. “You _did_ start this, Fiona.”

“I hate you all.” Fiona, who had managed to get down to her last two cards, stuck her tongue out at Robyn as she drew six more from the top of the pack. After a moment, her ears pricked forward and a worryingly gleeful light sparked in her lovely eyes. “Oh, look. His Majesty the king of peaks. Which means I can swap hands with anyone I like.”

Robyn covered her face.

Briskly folding her own cards, Fiona whacked her on the head with them and held out a hand. _“Give.”_

“Merciless,” Robyn informed her. “I thought you loved me.”

Returning to the common area with three precariously balanced mugs of tea, May said, “There’s no such thing as love after the first hour. How long have you been _going?”_

“I refuse to answer that question,” Robyn informed her as Joanna set down the queen of peaks, skipping Robyn and freeing Fiona to divest herself of a seven, “on the grounds that it could incriminate us.”

“Why are we playing by this ruleset?” Joanna asked, apparently, the uncaring gods. “Why do we even _have_ this ruleset?”

Robyn accepted her tea with a grateful smile. “Because we’ve been trapped in a one-bedroom apartment for four straight days and we need a distraction.”

At the moment, they were waiting for an all-clear. Their contact was expected in the next few days; Ilia Amitola was keeping an eye on the royal intelligence agents in the area, and as their current hideout was well outside the range of any of their recent operations they should be free to get back to work soon.

A light, quick series of knocks on the door shut everyone up. After a pause, the signal repeated itself. It wasn’t Ilia’s signature knock, but the standard White Fang IFF code was recognizable enough.

“May,” said Robyn, handing over her monstrous hand. “Take over. And teach Fiona a lesson, won’t you?”

“I can’t _believe_ you—”

Robyn ruffled her woolly hair as she stood, crossing to the door. “All’s fair in love and war, lambchop.”

 _“Abusing your power_ to take revenge on _innocent faunus—”_

Laughing, Robyn tapped the friend-or-foe response on the wood before opening the door to greet their visitor.

A bolo whipped out of the darkness before she could blink.

By the time she registered the weapon’s existence her arms were already lashed tight to her sides, an electronic whir confirming that the cables had locked in place. The momentum knocked her off her feet; she opened her mouth to shout a warning, but a second bolo flew over her head before she had the chance. Fiona was down.

Joanna, sitting to the side and out of the immediate line of fire, had time to lunge for her staff; May simply vanished, and Robyn had a brief moment of hope for them both.

Their weapons had been carefully designed. Joanna managed to block a third bolo, the cables wrapping uselessly around her staff, and simultaneously shoot out the nearest window; but within moments a green glow had shot through the open doorway, grappling her for the staff. A crackle of electricity and a motion blur were all the warning anyone had before, unable to block, Joanna was hit hard in the gut and tackled to the ground.

May should have been free, still. But Robyn felt her heart nearly stop at the man who stepped over her next. The uniform would have been bad enough; but even without it, she would have recognized Clover Ebi. If the captain of the Royal Guard had come in person…

With a casual flick, he sent his thin grappling line whistling across the room. It flicked through the broken window—and, by sheer bad luck, as it whiplashed back around it tangled around something invisible nearby, yanking May back through the opening and off her feet. Her Semblance failed at the impact, and another guardsman hurried forward to bind her like the rest of them.

“Get inside,” Ebi ordered. 

The guards’ speedster made a lightning-fast round of their little hideout; while she confirmed the place was clean, the tall guardsman used his projected energy to scoop most of the broken glass away from the window and twitched the curtains closed. Robyn, still trying to force her way free of her bonds, was casually picked up from behind and carried back over the threshold. Attempts to bite her captor only resulted in a laugh and a comment of “Feisty!”

Thus far, the royal guard did not appear to be in any hurry to kill them. That was actually more worrying than the alternative. Outside of Mantle, Robyn and her girls would...not be hard to disappear.

Robyn was placed, not with an overabundance of care but far from roughly, in their overstuffed armchair. Across the room the royal guard appeared to be trying the same thing with Joanna; but she was taller and broader than them, and struggling so hard they eventually just left her on the floor. May and Fiona, hands cuffed behind their backs and feet tied together, were manhandled onto the sofa. 

Ebi exchanged a look and a brief nod with his speedster when she rejoined the group, and tapped his comm. “You’re clear, sir. Room is secure.”

The implications of that took just half a second longer for Robyn to grasp than it took for James Ironwood to let himself into her apartment.

“Miss Hill,” he said with a polite half-bow, as if this were a social occasion. “My apologies for the lateness of the hour. You’re a difficult woman to find.”

Robyn jerked against the cables still holding her arms to her sides, and tried to calm her pounding heart. “What is this?”

The King at least had the grace to wince gently. “I...realize how this must look to you. I assure you, no harm will come to you tonight. I really do only want to talk.”

That was not reassuring phrasing. Robyn took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, and Ironwood seemed to take that as permission to make himself comfortable. They’d pulled the ottoman into the center of the room so that May could use it as a backrest as she spectated their card game, and he sat down and rested his hands on his knees, facing Robyn with a serious expression.

“No, please,” she said with acid grace. “Make yourself at home. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Ironwood sighed. “I realize that you’re unhappy with my presence here.”

Robyn arched an eyebrow, exchanging a pointed glance with the hogtied Joanna.

“...I meant, my presence _here._ In Mantle. That was the problem I wanted to discuss with you this evening.”

Joanna growled, “Oh, I just _bet_ you did.” Robyn silenced her with another quick look. She needed to keep the man talking while she figured out how the hell they were going to get out of this alive. 

Mantle didn’t have _much_ in the way of faunus protections, but its higher faunus population meant there was _less_ legal bias toward humans within the Kingdom. If they were taken to Atlas—and they _would_ be taken to Atlas, Ironwood’s true loyalties were clear enough—they wouldn’t even have that to rely on. Robyn had kept her own status hidden in the last decade, but that wouldn’t survive a proper search, and Fiona wouldn’t even have that luxury…

Ironwood cleared his throat. “You have to realize,” he said. “I’m...in a very uncomfortable position. I can’t simply ignore the political situation in Mantle.”

“Really?” Robyn was a massive hypocrite, keeping Joanna from antagonizing their captors. “Why stop now?”

“Until very recently, as you may recall, it wasn’t my _place_ to interfere with Mantle’s rule. Now that it is, I can’t allow you to continue sowing rebellion in my kingdom.”

_“Your—!”_

“It’s a threat to Mantle’s stability,” he said, plowing through her indignant protest. “I realize the situation is grim here. I understand your position, and I respect your desire to help the people of Mantle. But this is not the way. Even if you had the ability to successfully spark a revolution, all you would accomplish would be to throw thousands of lives away, and set yourself up as a mortal enemy to your closest neighbor and trading partner.”

Robyn didn’t bother hiding her disdain for that logic. “The people of Mantle are demanding their rights,” she corrected. “We’ve given you every chance to agree to those demands. If you choose to bring in guns and soldiers instead of leaving where you’re not wanted, then the blood of those who die is on _your_ conscience.”

“I can’t do that.” He said it so infuriatingly calmly. “I have Atlas to think of as well, and without reliable access to trade with Mantle, it won’t just be the economy that suffers. I’m now responsible for two kingdoms, one of them deep inland in Solitas. Poverty and starvation bring the Grimm, you know that better than anyone. Too much of our trade comes through Mantle ports for me to allow an uprising here. I _will_ do whatever it takes to prevent that if you force my hand. There are simply too many lives at stake.”

Robyn considered him.

“You don’t really think I’m going to stand down because you asked me nicely.” As best she could without the use of her arms, she sat forward. “What do you want?”

He made an expression that tried valiantly to be a smile. “I wanted to speak with you in person because I think that killing you would be a waste. You’re an intelligent, charismatic revolutionary leader. The people of Mantle believe in you. I wanted to suggest...an alternative. I need to placate Mantle, and I _want_ to do that without having you shot. And _you_ want to improve the lives of Mantle’s people—protect them from exploitation, expand their influence. Keep them safe and help them prosper.”

Robyn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you think you have a solution?”

“What I wanted to propose is…” For some reason, he blanched and backtracked. “That is. I only meant to suggest that doing so would be simple. For the Queen of Atlas.”

The silence that followed his words was louder than a Grimm siren.

 _“...What?”_ Fiona finally breathed.

“I’m...” Robyn stared up at him, feeling caught quite thoroughly off-guard. “I’m _guessing_ you’re not offering to abdicate in my favor, which must mean there’s a gas leak in here. May, did you turn the stove off?”

“That’s sick.” May, who didn’t seem to have registered the question, twisted against her bonds. “That’s _sick,_ what is _wrong_ with—”

“Please.” Ironwood held up his hands in what was probably meant to be a calming gesture. “Understand what I’m saying.”

“Oh, I understand more than you seem to think.” Robyn’s shock was beginning to give way to anger. “You really know the way to a woman’s heart, huh. What you’re _saying_ sounds a lot like ‘marry me or I’ll kill you’. That about cover it?”

“No, of course—” Ironwood’s eyes widened slightly as he cut himself off. After several awkward seconds, he said, “That was...not my intent.”

“Oh, _bullshit!”_

“I’m—Miss Hill, I apologize. Sincerely. My _sole_ intent was to offer a political alliance. The symbolism is undeniable—a true partnership for the future of Mantle. Wars have been averted with such marriages in the past; clemency for any actions taken by you _or your people_ before the engagement would be assumed. And it would place you in a position of real power to aid in enforcing the law.”

Robyn’s jaw clenched. “And if I refuse?”

Ironwood looked pained, but resigned. “Then I could only ask again that you reconsider this rebellion, and hope you’ll understand. I have no desire to see blood in the streets of either of my kingdoms.”

He seemed completely sincere—but then, he would, wouldn’t he? And she was ever so _conveniently_ prevented from knowing for sure. “Right. So you’ll just let us all go, is that it? The ringleaders of this rebellion you’re so _convinced_ you have to put down for the good of Mantle?”

“As an act of faith,” Ironwood said quietly. “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

For several seconds, Robyn stared at him.

 _“...Oooh.”_ The guardsman with the canine tail made an aside glance at Ebi. “Do you think...maybe we should have untied her... _before_ His Majesty proposed…?”

Ironwood closed his eyes and rubbed one temple. There were a series of awkward coughs around the room; Robyn missed whoever gave the signal, but the lights on the electronic bolo switched off and the cables relaxed, allowing her to shrug them off. Idly, she rubbed a hand over the raw marks they’d left behind.

“It seems a bit of a leap from ‘state-sanctioned murder’,” she said slowly. 

“An advisory position wouldn’t be enough,” said Ironwood. “If anything, it would only make it harder for me to act in Mantle’s best interests without accusations of being manipulated or blackmailed by...forgive me, but an upjumped commoner with an agenda. A marriage of state would legitimize my...interest.”

“Interest in _what?”_ snarled Fiona. The speedster blinked and looked askance at the sheer venom in her voice.

It took Ironwood a moment, frowning politely at the interruption, to understand what she’d implied. It was at least _somewhat_ reassuring that his eyes immediately flew wide.

 _“No!”_ he exclaimed. “No, absolutely—under no circumstances would I even consider—that is.” Trying and failing to collect himself, he said, “Miss Hill, don’t misunderstand me. You are without a doubt one of the most beautiful women I have ever met, but I—that’s only an _observation_ , and not, which is to say, even if you had any desire to—my intent was only—I have very little interest in, not women, but in you on a personal—no, that’s worse—”

Placing a hand on his king’s shoulder, Ebi stepped forward.

“I think what His Majesty is trying to say,” he said smoothly, “is that this arrangement is purely political and engineered primarily for your own benefit; and would be entered, should you accept, in the mutual understanding that the relationship will never be physical."

“Ahem.” Ironwood straightened his tie. “Yes. Thank you, Clover.”

Clover patted his shoulder and stepped back to parade rest.

“How the _hell_ does this man run two countries,” Joanna muttered under her breath.

Robyn, mind whirling so fast she could almost hear motors in her head, turned the...proposal...over. Her gut instinct aside, she wasn’t certain she could afford to take advantage of her freed hands and punch the King in the face.

She took a deep breath, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and held out a hand.

“You’re going to untie my team,” she ordered, voice hard. “You’re going to take my hand, and you’re going to start again. From the top.”


	2. The Top Seven Causes Of Pre-Wedding Jitters

When the Royal Guard swept back out of the apartment nearly as quickly as they’d stormed it in the first place, they left shattered glass, bruises, and a profound punch-drunk silence in their wake.

Robyn stared, stunned and unseeing, into blank space. Every so often the lights glinted off the object she was obsessively turning over between her fingers. 

The last thing the Atlesians had left behind—a silver card, stiff metallic plastic, bearing no marks whatsoever except simple black lettering. A long alphanumeric clearance code, one-time use only, and a scroll number that was  _ absolutely _ not listed anywhere else. They would let her contact the King directly, once she’d had time to “consider her answer”.

Her fingers trembled so badly she nearly sliced them open on the edge of the card.

This was madness. Absolute madness. There was nothing to  _ consider. _

Robyn knew that much for certain. There could not possibly be anything to think about, the response was so obvious.

Now if only she could figure out what that patently obvious response should be.

Joanna, with difficulty, found her voice first.

“...Robyn?” she managed after several tries. “You, um...you all right?”

Robyn gave a faint hum of affirmation.

“Good,” Joanna murmured in a daze. “That’s good. What the  _ fuck just happened?” _

Flipping the silver card between the fingers of one hand, Robyn braced an elbow on her knee and rubbed her forehead. “Your guess is as good as mine. Looks like what happened is I’m engaged to James Ironwood, and I’d  _ love  _ to know how we got here.”

“You’re actually considering it,” May realized in a tone of horrified wonder.

“He was telling the truth,” Robyn said. Her semblance had shown that, as impossible as it was. “And that means I  _ can’t  _ just dismiss it out of hand.”

“...You sure?” Joanna blinked at her, stupefied. 

“Yeah, no, I’m with Jo,” May said. “How hard did you get knocked on the head? How hard did  _ I  _ get knocked on the head?!”

“I know,” Robyn breathed. She squeezed her eyes shut.  _ “Believe _ me, I know. But we’ve always known rebellion was a terrible gamble. Even if we won, thousands of people would die in the process. We’re being offered a much,  _ much _ safer bet. I can’t justify the risk for the reward anymore.” 

She was staring down the barrel of her own judgement. Was this revolution in the making  _ really _ about Mantle? Did she want to win Mantle’s independence and dismantle the system of hereditary monarchy because she truly had the interests of her people at heart? Was it true, what she’d always told herself—that all she wanted was for the people of Mantle to live free and happy, without constant fear? 

Or had it only ever been about Robyn’s own pride?

Joanna, gaze flicking between Robyn’s eyes, sagged in resignation. “You’re doing it.” It wasn’t a question.

May gave a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re going to make me sit through a state dinner. At a royal wedding. This is how you repay my years of loyalty and all those times I saved your life, Robyn. You force me to remember where a salad fork goes. I’d managed to  _ forget _ where a salad fork goes.”

“You’re gonna have to teach us,” Joanna said in a tone more appropriate to discussing May’s duty to perform a mercy killing. “Some of us don’t have blood as blue as yours. Or hair.”

“That’s just it.” Robyn lifted her head to look between the three of them. “It’s things like a state dinner that I’m thinking of. Do you have any idea how much money will be spent on a royal wedding alone?”

“Yes,” said May. “It’s actually disgusting.”

“Exactly.” Robyn gestured in the direction of the city. “Imagine the good we could do in just one day, funneling those kinds of resources into Mantle businesses and merchants. Faunus-run operations. Restricting contracts for catering services to businesses that pay living wages and have real, enforced equal-opportunity policies. And that’s without my even technically having  _ any _ legal power yet.”

Joanna snorted. “Well, it’s not the  _ traditional  _ way of going mad with power, but if you do it you better make sure you don’t drink anything that Jacques Schnee hasn’t first.”

Just barely, Robyn managed to twitch the corners of her lips upward. “We’ll make that our long-term goal,” she murmured. “Get Jacques Schnee arrested for all those workplace safety violations Atlas obviously knows he’s committing. It’ll be something to dream about.”

“What’s the short-term goal?” Joanna sat forward like she was preparing to receive a mission briefing.

Robyn turned the contact card over in her hand, and again, before slipping it into her pocket. She would send her response...tomorrow. It wouldn’t pay to look too willing.

“For now?” She threw Joanna a wry smile. “Finding a bridesmaid’s gown that looks good on all three of you.”

Fiona abruptly jumped to her feet, ran to the apartment’s bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

“Wow,” said May.

Suddenly tired, Robyn dropped her head into her hands. “All right,” she sighed. “What did I say?”

“No, no!” May’s voice  _ dripped _ with false enthusiasm. “That was  _ smooth! _ The silver-tongued savior of Mantle strikes again! You really just asked your girlfriend of seven years to be a bridesmaid at your wedding to the  _ King of Atlas, _ an hour after she was assaulted by the Atlesian Royal Guard. I’m  _ so _ glad you’re the one who makes the plans.”

Robyn cringed. “Well...when you put it like that.”

_ “Apologize to her!” _

Robyn didn’t even try to defend herself. Ducking under May’s furiously indignant gesture in the direction of the bedroom, she backed away to a safe distance before turning to Joanna in a silent plea.

Joanna shook her head and held up her hands. Robyn closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose and silently counting backwards from ten.

“All right,” she breathed finally. “All right. We need to...talk.” Taking May’s silent  _ yeah, no shit _ as her due, Robyn crossed the apartment and knocked quietly at the door. “Fiona? It’s me.”

There was no answer. After it became obvious that one wasn’t coming, Robyn sighed and let herself in.

Fiona was sitting on the edge of the bed, knees hugged tight to her chest. Her eyes were bloodshot in the brief illumination from the open doorway; she hadn’t bothered to turn on any of the lights.

“Hey,” Robyn said softly as she let the door close behind her. “Talk to me, lambchop.”

“Don’t call me that,” Fiona muttered, swallowing thickly. “I don’t wanna talk to you right now. I’m being stupid.”

Robyn sat next to her on the bed, reaching out until she saw Fiona flinch away; her fingers recoiled as if from a mousetrap, which only served to make Fiona look  _ more  _ miserable.

“You’re not being stupid,” Robyn told her, hoping she’d kept the hurt out of her voice.

“I am, okay? I know I am.” Fiona swiped furiously at her eyes. “I’m so  _ mad _ at you right now and it’s not fair. It’s not your fault, it’s not even—it doesn’t even  _ mean  _ anything, it’s just politics, it’s stupid to even care.”

“...But?”

Fiona’s shoulders tightened. After a long moment, she finally burst out, “But would it have killed you to  _ look _ at me? Just once? You could have  _ hesitated! _ You could at least  _ pretend _ you’re giving something up!” She hugged her knees tighter, voice nearly inaudible as she muttered, “You could at least act like  _ I’m _ giving something up.”

“Nothing has to change between us,” Robyn murmured. “It’s only a marriage as a technicality—”

“It’s still  _ legal,” _ Fiona said into her knees. “I  _ told _ you it wasn’t fair. I just—I  _ knew _ something like this was going to happen.”

Despite the knife in her chest at seeing Fiona in pain—at knowing it  _ was _ her fault—Robyn couldn’t keep the bewilderment from her face either.

“...You knew something like  _ this  _ was going to happen?” She threw her a weak smile. “Next time feel free to give me a heads-up, because that’s awfully specific.”

“Shut  _ up!” _ Fiona’s hands fisted in her hair, pinning her ears at an angle that  _ had _ to be hurting her. “I knew this would happen! I knew you were too good to be true, I knew  _ something  _ would happen and I wouldn’t get to keep you! And I know that’s an awful thing to say and I didn’t mean it like that but—” Her entire body heaved with a sob. “I thought we could—I wanted to—I wanted it and I know you did too but I  _ wanted _ it, Robyn, I wanted it so  _ much—” _

This time, when Robyn reached for her, she didn’t pull away. Fiona let herself be guided into Robyn’s side, grabbing tightly onto her lapel the moment she was close enough as a warm arm curled around her waist.

Voice hitching on tears, Fiona choked out, “I just wanted to be able to kiss you in public someday and I  _ can’t _ and it’s not your fault but I’m still—”

Robyn’s throat closed in on itself. She wished so badly that she could offer any reassurance at all, but Fiona was right. The moment Robyn was—her mind skittered away from the thought, but—to the King of Atlas, Fiona would be demoted from a respected partner to a royal mistress. And not the kind with the luxury of being favored by an actual reigning monarch, either.  _ (“Queen Consort, I think,” _ Ironwood had said with a faint smile. All the power and influence of the title, but only so long as she was actually married to the living King.  _ “To avoid any...unfortunate accidents.”) _

So, more the type of royal mistress that was traditionally beheaded in front of a jeering crowd.

Obviously it had been hundreds of years since that kind of thing happened, Atlas was a modern nation. And simple royal infidelity hadn’t been a crime in over a century. But  _ leaking state secrets _ absolutely was, and it was...convenient...how frequently those two charges went hand in hand. Even if it wasn’t...the only reason the two of them were discreet in public  _ now _ was to avoid placing a target on Fiona’s back any larger than it had to be. That risk would only grow exponentially when any word of their relationship carried a royal scandal along with it. The King would have almost no political choice  _ but  _ to end the marriage, at the very least—which, yes, Robyn’s heard bled at the very thought, but it would still defeat the purpose of this whole charade. 

And...that was assuming his goodwill lasted. He’d spoken the truth about his expectations of their ‘relationship’, of course. But James Ironwood would not be the first man whose calm acceptance of a woman’s refusal lasted only as long as he was never faced with the prospect that someone  _ else  _ might be given what he could never have. Especially someone like Fiona.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all Robyn could offer except to hold her, fingers carding through white hair as gently as she could manage as Fiona shook against her with the force of her grief. 

It wasn’t enough; but finally, slowly, the storm started to pass. She was able to breathe between her sobs. Robyn wasn’t certain how much time passed before Fiona was able to lie quiet in her arms, only that she didn’t care.

“...I  _ told _ you it wasn’t fair.” Fiona nuzzled into Robyn’s chest, voice raspy from crying. “Nothing’s even that different. You just seemed so  _ calm, _ and...I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.” A wet, broken laugh. “We can’t both be irrational assholes at once.”

“Fiona…” Robyn swallowed. “If you asked me to refuse...”

Fiona’s head snapped up, her glare visible in the dark even if Robyn  _ hadn’t _ had a fox’s night vision.

“What?” she demanded. Her voice was shaky, still—but hard. “You’d tell him no? Do—Do you really think this will be good for Mantle? Make things fairer? Help people?”

Robyn sighed. “Yes.”

“Then don’t you  _ dare _ lie to me to make me feel better. If I asked you to turn him down, would you do it?”

Robyn looked at her for far too long.

“No,” she finally said, because Fiona had the right to the truth.

Slowly, Fiona’s shoulders started to relax.

“Good.” She swallowed again, sniffled quietly. “You’d better not. No one in Mantle’s  _ ever _ had a better chance than this. You have to take it. I just want to be unreasonable for a little while.”

Robyn squeezed her gently. “I think you’ve earned that.”

“And  _ obviously  _ I’m in your wedding party,” Fiona grumped. “You’re not standing next to Ironwood with your back to hundreds of people who hate us without me there to tackle you. Don’t even try.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

From what James Ironwood understood, wedding planning generally took much longer than three months.

That sounded like absolute  _ hell. _ The last two months, three weeks and five days had been bad enough, and that was having ripped off the bandage as quickly and cleanly as possible.  _ And  _ having acquiesced willingly to Robyn’s terse insistence that she have control over various catering services. Of all things...

“Will you relax?” Qrow had not been particularly sympathetic to James’ suffering, but he didn’t have to look  _ quite _ as amused as he did. “With how tight you tailored that stupid suit, you keep tensing your shoulders like that and you’ll rip the seams out.”

James sent a flat look over his shoulder. “Well. It would be the first time  _ you _ complained.”

He probably should have been more careful about how he moved. As he turned back to his mirror and went to twitch the jacket straighter, he felt a thread pop dramatically on his right shoulder.

He sighed. “You did that on purpose.”

“Hey,” Qrow protested. “Don’t pin this on me, I warned you!”

Clover swept in with a brisk gesture. “Nothing to worry about, sir.” He whipped out a small box of pins he had apparently just happened to be carrying. “Full dress uniform for a wedding, which means there’s a sash over that shoulder. It’ll be pinned in place anyway, so no one will notice. Lucky, huh?”

In the mirror, James watched Qrow make mocking finger puppets of the conversation.

His lover had been banished from physically assisting James in dressing this morning, not because of his Semblance but because of his...personality and general lack of helpfulness in what he rightfully saw as a farcical disaster in the making.

Thankfully, Clover was generally more reliable when  _ professionalism  _ was needed.

James’ Captain of the Guard circled him with quick, calm movements, straightening medals and brushing off lint and dust before carefully pinning the sash in place. Somehow, it managed to look crisp and clean, while simultaneously natural.

“I don’t deserve you, Clover,” he said honestly.

Clover clapped him on the shoulder. “My oath of service prevents me from agreeing with you, Your Majesty. Now, about the motorcade—”

“No, no,” Qrow griped from the couch to which he had been unceremoniously banished after ruffling James’ hair for the third time. “You two tightasses definitely deserve each other. I’m just  _ saying,” _ he protested at Clover’s mildly disapproving look. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Clover was satisfied with the answer; Qrow was being truthful, after all. He’d never made more than a handful of half-joking comments to that effect, knowing Clover’s opinion of becoming romantically entangled with his monarch. James respected that boundary. Frankly, Clover wasn’t  _ quite  _ to his tastes; they were, all three of them, quite happy not closing this particular triangle.

“What about the motorcade?” James asked, moving on from the moment. He smiled at Clover in the mirror. “Who poses more of a threat of murdering me on the day of my wedding—anarchists, the White Fang, or my future wife?”

“It’s definitely Hill,” Clover informed him bluntly, pulling up a distractingly long list on his scroll. “But I’m not concerned about anything she might pull until the ceremony is actually complete. I’m watching for assassination attempts from her beginning roughly three months from now when she’s had time to solidify her political position. Today’s main threats are any prominent nobles with daughters of marriageable age who might feel snubbed, or whose interests are directly threatened by a close union with Mantle. I can give them to you in alphabetical order or in order of severity of risk.”

James blinked.

“Schnee,” translated Qrow.

At that, James had to chuckle. “Well, Jacques Schnee has probably been planning my assassination for years. That much is old news.”

“Yes, well, today he has means, motive, opportunity and plausible deniability.” Clover straightened his collar. “So try to stay close to me and out of particularly tempting sniper lines.”

James sighed. “As usual, Clover. But shouldn’t you be more concerned about attacks on Miss Hill, if the nobility are so likely to be incensed at the match?”

He nearly heard Qrow rolling his eyes.

“Doesn’t work like that, Jimmy.” He and Clover exchanged exasperated looks behind James’ back, as if he couldn’t see them perfectly well in the mirror. “The official story is that you two fell madly in love over the course of your negotiations, remember?” 

James winced at the reminder.

Well, they’d had to come up with some form of cover story, hadn’t they? The entire point of this sham marriage was to smooth the way of reforming trade deals and altering what tax policy the throne of Mantle had direct control over, by providing a cover of affection and mutual care. A king could somehow justify with pure emotion that which his nobles would never accept as cold, impersonal intent. Or at least, nobles were much less willing to raise a fuss over something a monarch did on behalf of his beloved wife, for fear of incurring his wrath.

That would never be the case if they were open and honest about the fact that their “relationship” was a technicality at best, chosen with mutual distaste solely to give Robyn Hill the ability to interfere with Mantle’s administration. James would face more pushback, not less. And so they had to, in public, maintain the facade of being utterly enamoured with each other.

Personally, James thought that alone should put his blushing bride  _ significantly  _ higher on Clover’s list.

“Right,” Qrow drawled, having apparently read James’ entire train of thought in his expression. “Well, if she dies tragically on your wedding day, that’s not exactly likely to result in you continuing to favor Atlas over Mantle in all your policy-making, is it?”

“I don’t—”

“Bullshit,” said Qrow. “Anyway. A king mad with grief over his murdered wife is a danger. You might purge the nobility, you’d certainly dedicate a lot of time and effort into helping her homeland and finding her assassins. With you gone, she’s nothing and there’s a power vacuum.”

_ “Thank _ you,” said Clover, gesturing at the spymaster as if he’d just won some kind of argument when James definitely did not remember ever saying they were wrong. “Do not die today, sir. It’ll look bad on my service record.”

Qrow snorted. “Which is all that matters.” 

Clover winked at him. “You like the service ribbons and you know it. Time check,” he announced to the room at large before pulling out his own watch. “One hour until we leave. Qrow, hand me a corsage?”

Qrow coughed, shoulders hunching in a manner that belied his casual tone. “Yeah. One of them may have, uh, had an accident on the way up. We have a spare, though. Lucky.”

He had that look on his face again. Before James could open his mouth to reassure him that sometimes bad luck was entirely organic, Clover laughed.

“I don’t think I can take credit for that one,” he grinned. “That was all you. I know how badly you wanted to avoid having to wear one.”

“Heh.” Despite himself, Qrow grinned back. “Fair enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would not believe how many times we accidentally wrote "birdsmaids" while writing this chapter. Oddly appropriate.


	3. The Lincoln-Green Wedding

Sunlight lanced off the motorcade’s chrome highlights, which James thought was unnecessarily rude of the universe.

They might at least have had the dignity of the weather being appropriately overcast, but no. It had snowed last night; not in Atlas, of course, but the muddy tundra was blanketed in thick, perfect white from every vantage point that allowed a view outside the city walls. Experts predicted the hard freeze would hold, preserving the snowfall for the next several days. And yet this morning there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Well, he thought, resigned. So be it. 

There were few venues in Atlas acceptable for this manner of ceremony; in the end they’d simply borrowed the formal auditorium space from the Atlesian Huntsman Academy. It was elegant and important enough for the dignity of the day, and it had allowed Clover and General Schnee to finally get some sleep instead of constantly panicking over the security arrangements.

That it would be reassuringly familiar to a bride likely to be uncomfortable in Atlas was a thought James had not voiced except to Qrow, who’d chuckled affectionately and advised him not to share it with Miss Hill unless he wanted it vetoed on principle.

The car hummed to a stop in front of the main doors, and James took a few moments to breathe in and let the breath out slowly before stepping onto the curb. Clover and Qrow followed at his heels from the second car; despite his halfhearted protests about mishaps and wardrobe malfunctions, James wouldn’t hear of Qrow being anywhere but at his side today. 

Miss Hill had apparently followed the same train of thought—the three women carefully stepping onto the pavement two cars ahead were the same ones who had been with her the night of his...proposal. 

Qrow had given him a quick briefing on Miss Hill’s inner circle, though there wasn’t much to tell. May Marigold was the only one with a record of any kind—a very,  _ very  _ estranged member of a minor noble family in Mantle. But even that had been hard to find, as the Marigold records apparently had her listed under a different name. (Qrow hadn’t elaborated on why.) The other two, the exceptionally-tall Greenleaf and the faunus whose name he couldn’t place—something like Sage, he thought?—were just as much an enigma as Miss Hill herself. 

James couldn’t help noting that the simple spring-green dresses were cut so that they wouldn’t restrict movement in combat, which couldn’t be an accident. No doubt they were taking Robyn’s safety as seriously as Clover took his. Greenleaf alone had bothered with neither a dress nor subtlety; the shade of her suit jacket matched the others exactly, but the fact that she’d opted for a white satin sash instead of leather did nothing to make the crossbow slung across her back less obvious. 

Clover hadn’t been happy, but as he and James were both armed and Robyn was not, they couldn’t protest. The other two, in deference to the optics of the thing,  _ appeared  _ harmless. James would still bet half his kingdom that they were concealing weapons under those light, flowing skirts. 

They certainly hadn’t chosen the style with the  _ weather _ in mind, he thought. Climate-controlled or not, it was still late autumn in Atlas, and the temperature didn’t have to be fatal to have teeth.

Perhaps the good weather was for the best. James certainly wouldn’t feel any better about the situation with the three of them having to stand through the ceremony—sensible flat shoes or no—in rain-soaked clothes. Wishing for clouds was likely just his penchant for the dramatic, and self-indulgent to boot. This was hardly a day of mourning. A step forward for relations between Mantle and Atlas  _ was  _ something to celebrate, even if the necessity of a wedding was unfortunate for both of them. 

And anyway, the new Queen deserved a good omen. Today she was assuming more power than she could have ever dreamed of, in Mantle  _ and  _ Atlas. She would want to start building political capital right away, and in the short time he’d known her she’d struck him as the kind of person who saw the value in symbolism.

Relaxing his shoulders and letting himself smile, James opened the car door and held out a hand.

Part of him had honestly expected her to refuse it and was prepared to drop the proffered arm gracefully, so as not to allow the tabloids any unnecessary headlines. As such, it came as a faint surprise when he was actually allowed to act the gentleman.

“Miss Hill,” he murmured with a low bow, handing her up and out of the car with a soft palm. “You look stunning.”

It was nothing but the truth. Like her...bridesmaids...Robyn Hill had opted for a strikingly minimalist look. James’ awkward suggestions for traditional Atlesian styles had been taken in her stride at the time and, apparently, discarded with just as little fuss as she had listened to them. 

Her hair was twisted off her neck in an elegantly casual variation on her usual ponytail; the dress itself stood out among the crowd of Atlesian nobility in large part because of its simplicity, little in the way of flourishes or excess to break the impact of the flowing white silk. The effect was interrupted only by tasteful detailing of vines and leaves in a muted spring green, and a silver brooch in the shape of a rising falcon pinning a sprig of lavender flowers to her chest. The symbolism was clear enough for anyone: the national color of Mantle elegantly intertwined with that of Atlas.

She smiled at him, warm and earnest as she slipped an arm loosely through his.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, lips barely moving and voice pitched far too low for any of the hovering microphones to pick up.

Acutely conscious of the number of cameras pointed their way, James didn’t let the sting of the accusation show on his face. Mimicking her soft smile and resting a hand over hers on his arm, he replied, “Had I ever entertained the notion, I wouldn’t dare. Your taste in floral arrangements is...inspired.”

Very few people on the extremely exclusive guest list were likely to recognize the meaning behind the unconventional choice. The clusters of bell-shaped foxglove flowers that formed the vast majority of the arrangements were entirely appropriate for the event—elegant, distinctive, pleasant to look at and without an overwhelming scent. The variety the Queen had chosen were of a soft lavender-and-white gradient, perfectly matching her eyes.

And every single part of the flower was also, as his long-suffering Captain of the Guard and the lover who was technically an assassin had been forced to explain to him, a well-known deadly poison that killed by slowing the heart until it stopped.

Somehow, he doubted the...pointed situational relevance…had been accidental.

“Wave to the cameras,” she told him sweetly instead of denying it. She raised a hand of her own toward the crowd, giving a genuinely charming half-wave and brushing a deliberately escaped lock of hair back behind her ear as the watchers cheered. “And don’t worry. If I ever kill you, I’ll do it myself, and you’ll know why.”

James risked a glance sideways. “For some reason,” he told her, “I don’t find that reassuring.”

Robyn’s laugh and the affectionate swat to his arm were almost authentic. “Besides,” she breathed, leaning up as if to kiss his cheek. “Digoxin would be too obvious—I’m the one who ordered the flowers. If I  _ was  _ going to poison you, the foxglove would be a red herring. I’d use a traceless contact toxin on your office keyboard.”

Qrow, thankfully, rescued him from having to come up with a suitable response to that.

“Hey,  _ lovebirds,” _ he called, somehow managing to look artfully disheveled in a professionally altered tailcoat that Clover had ironed for him three hours ago. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see each other before this thing starts? Get over here.”

James  _ did  _ actually have a few things to confirm with the minister. Grateful for the excuse, he nodded once to the crowd, gingerly extricated himself from Robyn Hill’s steel grip, and escaped.

* * *

It was so  _ convenient  _ where Robyn’s control of this out-of-control political dumpster fire began and ended.

Oh, Ironwood was  _ so very accommodating _ of her preferences, only too willing to let her take command of the event planning—so long as her decisions were things he obviously regarded as fluff. She was already making careful note of the red flags, if this pattern continued into the policy influence he’d promised her.

He’d seemed nothing short of relieved, if bewildered, by how firm her opinions on catering had been. While all of the civilian florists, caterers, photographers, musicians, and setup staff had been subject to royal security vetting, he’d been willing enough to simply run background checks and establish clearance protocols with her choices. Robyn gave credit where it was due—the King had even made a slightly tone-deaf but genuine attempt to establish who her personal desired  _ guest list  _ would include, and promised to incorporate them at any cost.

Admittedly, he had done this at the last possible minute and it had been phrased as  _ “is _ there anyone you’d want to attend?” as a blatant afterthought likely prompted by the spymaster rubbing his temples in the background of the video call. But he’d done it.

Aside from that brief foray into sentiment, the remainder of the arrangements were, in fairness, not something either of them had much control over. The guest list for a royal wedding, for example, was not the kind of thing that cared much about the  _ preferences  _ of the people involved. Neither was the choice of venue; for some reason, His Majesty King James hadn’t been receptive to Robyn’s sugar-sweet offer of renting a warehouse in the Dust district.

And so here they were, garlands of foxglove and fresh greenery trying and failing to bring some semblance of natural life to the sterile environment; after all these years, back in Atlas fucking Academy.

The fur on Robyn’s tail stump bristled as she tried to control her reaction. It was...instinctive. For all her years of covert operations since, her time at the Academy had felt infinitely more like hiding. Like living every day under  _ siege, _ under surveillance.

Probably because of the 24/7 surveillance.

Well, Robyn, she thought to herself as music began to play on the other side of the antechamber doors. It’s a good thing you’re about to become an actual head of state. I hear those have  _ tons  _ of privacy and no constant security presence to speak of.

It was never a good sign when her inner voice started to sound like May. 

Robyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. At her side, Fiona reached out anxiously to squeeze her hand; she forced herself to smile, but didn’t open her eyes. Not yet.

“We’ve got about five seconds,” Joanna warned her in an undertone. “Then the door’s gonna open.”

May muttered, “Still time to cloak and sneak you out a window.”

“Stop it,” Fiona hissed. “She’s miserable enough already.”

The sound of the doorknob turning gave Robyn a split second of warning. She risked a quick, frantic squeeze of Fiona’s hand before the door opened fully.

There were as many wedding traditions in Atlas and Mantle as there were gods. Robyn had tersely vetoed any arrangement that carried implications of...acquisition, or subordination. Ironwood had shot down her counteroffers of several common traditions from Mantle and all over Remnant that involved the—couple—simply entering side by side as equals. 

Too stark a political statement, apparently, as if that wasn’t her entire point. A compromise, then. They entered from opposite side wings off the auditorium, simultaneously, and met in the middle.

The King’s sovereignty remained unchallenged, and Robyn’s slightly paranoid attention to symbolism was satisfied.

Ironwood held his hands out, palm up, and smiled at her. She took some small comfort from the fact that it was the kind of smile she generally saw from people trying to claim they were fine while a Grimm gnawed on their femur a few yards away. He looked as pale as Robyn felt. So at least there was one thing they could bond over.

Aware that her heart was pounding and her stomach tied in knots—and  _ neither  _ in a manner she’d ever hoped to experience on her wedding day—Robyn swallowed the taste of bile and placed her hands on the King’s.

The minister conducting the ceremony had an oddly youthful appearance, despite his steel-grey hair and the spectacles perched on his nose. One of Ironwood’s extremely short shortlist of qualified ministers from Atlas—even Robyn was forced to admit through gritted teeth that a Mantle native would damage the ceremony’s perception as legitimate—who both passed a background check and were not affiliated with any especially controversial religious faction.

“Miss Hill,” he murmured, his mic still off and something sad and understanding in his eyes. To Ironwood he simply gave a quiet nod. And then he cleared his throat, and an indicator light on his throat microphone blinked active.

Robyn’s fingers spasmed against Ironwood’s, involuntary, and she prayed the cameras mistook it for an affectionate squeeze.

“My friends. My king, my lady,” the minister began, nodding to Ironwood and Robyn in turn before spreading his hands to encompass the audience. “You need me to say very little. We all know the reason we are here, and the forces greater than any of us that bring us here today. Courage; honesty; compassion; compromise; and selfless devotion. But above all, we gather today to celebrate the most powerful force in existence.  _ Choice.” _

Robyn, who had been bracing for the word  _ love, _ felt tension melt from her chest that she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Something flickered in the minister’s sad eyes that told her it was not an accident. But then he had turned back to the congregation with a pleasant smile, and she could nearly believe it had been her imagination.

“Today we gather in the sight of our many gods, the kingdoms of Remnant, and perhaps most importantly, the ordinary people who will look to their monarchs for leadership and inspiration, to celebrate the simple power of a single choice. A choice to see in one another not an enemy, but a fellow being, with the capacity for love. A choice, instead of giving in to hatred and fear, to offer a hand in peace.”

Robyn let her eyes drift closed. This was...bearable. Overly optimistic, with too much implied; but her nausea was settling in spite of herself. She hadn’t expected this—the balm of a minister who was intelligent enough to realize the truth, and yet idealistic enough that every word rang with warm sincerity.

She could bear this. If this was the worst of it, she could bear this.

“The simple act of choosing honesty and integrity over bitter distrust and violence,” he continued with that odd tenderness in his voice, “created the opportunity for something of unprecedented beauty to blossom from our harsh tundra. A leap of faith, and a union of love not merely between two individuals, but between two disparate peoples too long at odds, has allowed true hope to take root. May it flourish; and may the fruit it bears sustain Atlas, Mantle, and all of Remnant for many years to come.”

A murmur of affirmation rose from the audience. The minister took half a step back, and Robyn’s stomach lurched unpleasantly as Ironwood turned to face him. He dropped her left hand, which she flexed involuntarily as she let it drop to her side, missing the comforting weight and mechanical feedback of her bow. The right, he turned over so that her hand rested on top of his, fingers curled under to brush his palm, a parody of intimacy. Ebi stepped forward, and rings were produced.

Suddenly, bitterly, she was grateful for Ironwood’s light grip. It stopped her hand from shaking, and the faint pressure of his fingers holding hers halted her instinctive flinch back from the simple metal bands.

The minister’s eyes were too close to pitying, and Robyn found a place a few inches above them to look instead. If she started crying now...well. Maybe they’d get lucky, and the press would spin it as overwhelming emotion.

“Do you,” the man said quietly, “James Ironwood, King of Mantle and Atlas, caring for what you know of her and trusting that which you have yet to learn, take this woman…”

The words were a rush in Robyn’s ears. Every word of them had been like pulling teeth, the phrasing turned over and dissected a hundred thousand times in the months leading up to the ceremony; now she couldn’t even understand them enough to know whether they were still on-script.

She couldn’t breathe, either.

Careful not to move her head, not to give the news cameras hovering over the audience at their back any sign, she frantically cast around for something to watch—to focus on. Anything but the buzzing in her head and the increasing certainty that she was about to make the tabloids’ entire year by collapsing at the altar.

Inevitably, inexorably, her eyes found Fiona’s. 

She was...doing about as well as Robyn was, or so it appeared. There was no outward sign of pain; her face was carefully calm, eyes fixed on Robyn but slightly glazed over, one ear held neutral and the other tilted toward the minister’s voice.

There was no better barometer of distress. If Fiona felt safe, even remotely, it was impossible for her to control her emotional expression. Robyn could count on the fingers of one hand how many times she’d even  _ tried _ .

After a moment, Robyn’s held gaze drew out a spark of life in Fiona’s. Clever green eyes slowly slid back into focus, her right ear twitching faintly forward with her attention.

Robyn tried to smile at her, and couldn’t. Ironwood’s deep, even  _ “I do” _ rang through the auditorium like a guillotine falling home. The touch of gold on Robyn’s ring finger was colder than the Solitas tundra.

“Robyn Hill.” The minister paused, then continued softly. “Caring for what you know and trusting that which you have yet to learn…”

Robyn felt pain tighten around her eyes; but she held Fiona’s gaze, and didn’t look away.

It was as close as they were ever going to get. Robyn tilted her head, a silent question. After a long and uncomprehending moment, Fiona’s eyes widened in shock; her gasp was nearly, if not quite, enough to be picked up by the event microphones, and Robyn risked a quick quieting gesture with the fingers of her left hand.

“...facing in unity triumph and sorrow, acting with kindness and integrity, facing conflict with patience honoring and respecting one another for all of your shared days…”

Fiona could do nothing but stare at her; but a spring thaw had begun in her eyes, and Robyn felt warm relief flood her bones as Fiona’s shoulders relaxed, ears slowly perking forward as that terrible blankness finally melted off her face in favor of a soft, agonized love.

A tiny, barely perceptible nod.

“...do you take this man to be your husband?”

For the first time in months the knotted steel cables in Robyn’s chest loosened, just barely, just enough to breathe, to let her heart beat.

She turned her face ever so slightly toward the King, for the cameras; but lavender eyes stayed locked with spring green as she murmured, “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit since the last chapter, because for SOME reason, /JAMES/, we needed a few weeks to be able to look CERTAIN PLOT-IMPORTANT CHARACTERS IN THE EYE. 
> 
> Speaking of which: whatever your opinion is on Things that have Transpired in the show since we posted the last chapter, please do not litigate them in the comments of this fic. Thank you.


	4. Eat The Rich

The limousine’s clock was malfunctioning.

James was certain of this, because there was absolutely no way that what he knew for a fact had been the longest and most agonizing wedding ceremony in history had taken a mere seventy-five minutes.

“Oh good,” his blushing bride commented drily, “this thing has a minibar.” Without another word, she snatched up a finger-sized bottle of high-end vodka, upended it, and shook her head violently to swish it around her mouth.

Alright, yes, James had found  _ that  _ unfortunate aspect of the ceremony just as unpleasant, but he wasn’t sure this level of theatrics was entirely necessary.

“Mouthwash?” she asked, offering him a second tiny bottle.

James opened his mouth, mentally cycling through the possible responses to find one that would not be intrinsically offensive, then reconsidered.

“Ah,” he managed. “No. Thank you. That’s...won’t be...I’m fine.”

“Creep,” muttered Greenleaf. James spluttered.

“Play nice, Joanna,” Robyn chided under her breath, before ripping the cap free with her teeth and washing her mouth out a second time.

Now that really  _ was  _ unnecessary.

Also unnecessary, frankly, was the presence of Robyn’s...lieutenant? Bodyguard? Her former Academy partner, James remembered that much from his security briefings. Nothing else known about the woman, only that if she wasn’t where Robyn Hill was you could rely on her being somewhere nearby.

Not that he had room to complain. He’d brought Clover, after all. It just wasn’t done, a monarch travelling without a security escort…

Ah. No wonder. They were probably going to have to talk about that. Sooner, rather than later. If Robyn intended to keep her Huntresses on-hand, and he realized even as he had the thought that it had never been a question, then they would need to be folded into the Royal Guard. Atlas had laws about unaffiliated “personal security” among the nobility.

He considered saying something, but not for very long. There was an upper limit to what his blood pressure could handle in a three-hour period, and they still had a formal banquet to get through.

“You know,” Clover commented with a friendly grin. “You could have a little more respect for that stuff you’re using as mouthwash. It’s not exactly Mantlian moonshine, Your Majesty.”

Very carefully, James reached up to smooth down his beard. It was mostly successful in hiding his laughter at the expression on Robyn’s face. Her initial dark look at the reminder of Atlesian excess had abruptly shifted into a kind of delighted, dumbstruck horror.

When her brain had visibly been given time to reboot from the effect of the honorific, she had also controlled her flash of anger. Still, James noted the remains of real derision as she responded, “This swill  _ wishes  _ it could imitate Mantlian moonshine.”

Greenleaf smirked. “Atlesians couldn’t handle that.”

“Delicate blue-blooded constitutions,” Robyn agreed, to a low chuckle from her lieutenant.

_ “Play nice, Robyn,” _ Greenleaf mocked. “And hand me one of those little whiskey bottles. It’s the least you owe me for this shit.”

Clover usually had a very good poker face, but he couldn’t conceal his shock at Greenleaf’s… frankness. After a moment to collect himself he cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, carefully polite, “she  _ is  _ the Queen now. You should probably—”   
  
“Fuck off, bootlicker.”

* * *

Robyn was rapidly acquiring fresh, novel reasons why the aristocracy was an obsolete system that needed to be dismantled with extreme prejudice, preferably  _ before  _ she had to sit through any more presentations of Atlesian and Mantlian noblemen performing grandiose gestures of submission as they swore fealty to their new queen.

Any minute now, she was finally going to do what the White Fang had been urging for years and change her policy on strategic arson.

_ “All right,” _ May’s disembodied voice said in her earpiece.  _ “This next one is Lady Camilla.” _

By all appearances, May—seated with Fiona halfway down the banquet table on the right-hand side, beside several members of the Vale diplomatic corps—was as bored by the proceedings as everyone else. She was, at the moment, vaguely distracted by a stained-glass window; she had just lifted Robyn’s wedding bouquet, snatched deftly from the air at the end of the ceremony, to her nose.

Robyn’s aim at the Academy door had not been a coincidence. There was a microphone hidden among the stems and a tiny military-grade comm dot in her ear, for May to feed her information on whatever noble bullshit she needed reminding of.

Not for the first time, she regretted having been unable to make the connection bidirectional. A throat mic simply hadn’t been possible to hide, so she was unable to respond to the voice in her ear except by shooting vague looks down the banquet hall.

_ “Widowed five years ago, standard mourning period but never remarried,” _ May reported.  _ “Gets very chilly when anyone mentions her husband. Loves cats, dogs, and horses. Landed, northeastern holding; it’s not a large territory but it’s a lot for Atlas.” _

Robyn inclined her head, a greeting to Lady Camilla and also the signal for May to stop talking so she could concentrate. She thanked the woman for her pledge and, thinking quickly of prominent news stories from the past few months, managed to make some polite inquiries about how rebuilding from blizzard damage in her area was proceeding. It was a rote call-and-response, but Robyn’s careful emphasis on safe housing for the winter was genuine. She presented it as softly as possible; but a wince from May preempted the slight stiffening that said Robyn had overstepped a noble’s pride.

“I’m grateful for the Crown’s concern,” Camilla murmured. “But in this busy season, I would not want to intrude on either of your time.”

Robyn smiled and sat forward. “Not at all,” she said. “In truth, the King was hoping to meet with you soon regardless. There’s a draft of some proposed animal welfare legislation we were hoping to get your input on. I only thought we might both save precious time by also discussing any assistance you might benefit from.”

This time it was enough; Camilla bowed less stiffly, her smile just a tiny bit pleased as she straightened and accepted the proposed audience with all appropriate grace.

Off to the side, May took an idle sniff of her bouquet.

_ “Not bad,” _ she said.  _ “I’ve seen worse saves, but don’t overdo it for the next few. It should be Sleet after her, and—you’ve got to be fucking  _ kidding  _ me.” _

Robyn didn’t need an explanation for that; a footman at the door had already bowed and announced the arrival of His Lordship John Marigold.

Focusing on  _ that  _ meant that she didn’t give Lord Sleet any particular attention as she responded to his fealty. She was sure she’d have dreams consisting of nothing but this rote response for years to come.

Lord Marigold’s demeanor was  _ just  _ this side of polite. No doubt displeased that the King had married  _ Mantle gutter trash  _ like her, the same as so many others with unmarried daughters tonight.

_ “Oh, he’s scared,”  _ May said in her ear.  _ “He’s usually a bigger asshole.” _

Robyn didn’t need any commentary this time; she’d heard enough from May already about what a bunch of shitheads her relatives were. She gave him a thin smile. “I am grateful for your support, Lord Marigold; I know very well the value of Marigold devotion. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for the loyalty and courage of your  _ beloved  _ niece. You must be proud of the honor she’s brought to your family name.”

In an impressive feat of physics, Lord Marigold managed to turn almost the exact shade of Robyn’s floral arrangements. If they were lucky, someone would pinch off some seeds and slip them into his wine.

“His Lordship Jacques Schnee,” announced the footman, and May groaned in Robyn’s ear.

_ “Don’t do anything stupid,” _ she whispered, and switched the comm off.

It was easier said than done.

There was a reason Jacques Schnee was the last of the Atlesian nobility to stand before the monarchs for his oath. A grandstanding tradition, in essence; if the most powerful noblemen went first, and swore fealty that a minor lord later refused, it would be an insult to their twisted sense of honor. At the same time, the right to most dramatically upset proceedings was apparently reserved for the highest echelons of society. There was no noble in Atlas or Mantle who had consolidated as much power as this single white-haired murderer.

She’d wanted his blood for so long.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted her, with a low, overly formal bow. “I know I speak for all of Atlas—if I may be so bold, all of Mantle as well—when I say how  _ honored  _ I am to be asked to share in your happiness today.”

Every second Robyn had spent in politics, in high-stakes negotiations and interrogation rooms and passing through military checkpoints, coalesced into a single, desperate moment: she kept her expression perfectly still. None of her roiling, physical revulsion showed on her face.

There was no hope of preserving any kind of diplomatic relationship, not here. For every other noble, there had been a calculation to avoid making enemies; but Jacques Schnee would be her enemy no matter what she did, what subtle flatteries she came up with. And Robyn was grateful for that, because mending bridges with the man who’d singlehandedly done more damage to Mantle’s people than even their own monarchs had ever managed was not something she was willing to do.

There were olive branches she would not extend. Could not extend. Not if she wanted to keep her soul.

“I hope you share every ounce of my happiness today, Lord Schnee,” she replied. It was the truth, so her voice stayed even. “But it’s strange that such a well-known champion of Atlesian interests would speak for Mantle. Do you visit often? I don’t believe we ever met.”

Schnee gave a charming little laugh that had absolutely no warmth to it. “Why, if only we had, Your Majesty! Sadly, you had yet to grace my circles with your presence, the last time I visited my properties in Mantle. Travel to your lovely kingdom has gotten so very hazardous as of late. But of course you can understand my vested interest in Mantle’s wellbeing, and my appreciation for the  _ vigor  _ and unique spirit of her diverse peoples.”

Joanna, leaning against the back wall, shifted anxiously; May’s eyes were closed and her lips moving in what was either a silent prayer or an equally silent string of violent swearing. Ironwood, in Robyn’s peripheral vision, was impossibly tense. But Fiona, at May’s right hand, actually had her ears pinned, eyes narrowed to predatory slits as they bored into Jacques Schnee’s unprotected back.

Robyn was not stupid, and she hadn’t built her fledgling rebellion up to the strength it had attained by being reckless. She  _ felt  _ the danger, the price of a careless jab here; a leviathan stirring under black ice.

But she couldn’t let that pass, either. It was a very, very polite way of saying  _ We never met, no, but I worked thousands of your friends to death in my mines. I dearly wish you had joined them years ago. _

“We certainly have more interests in common than you may realize, Lord Schnee,” she said, quiet, feeling the ice crack and pop beneath her feet. “And you might be surprised by how long I and mine have graced your social circles. Every moment has been a pleasure and an honor.”

Before Schnee could strike back, Ironwood cleared his throat.

“You’ve come to make an oath, Lord Schnee, I believe?”

“But of course.” With a smile as oily as his mustache, Schnee gave another low bow with the air of a man doing Robyn an immense favor. “Your Majesty. I hereby swear, on my honor as a man and a citizen of Atlas, to be faithful to the Queen, to do her no harm, and to act with her always in good faith and without deceit. May her reign be long and prosperous, for us all. And may she always bear my  _ personal  _ good wishes. I do hope, my lady, that should you ever want for anything you merely ask.”

“Of course,” Robyn said evenly. Her mortal enemy rose from his bow and strode away.

_ “Thank the gods, you got through him,”  _ May said with quiet relief in her ear.  _ “And most of the foreign dignitaries have already gone, so it’s just—oh! You’ll like this one.” _

The wolf-eared honor guard who entered the room first gave the dignitary’s identity away even before the footman announced, without even a hint of reluctance, “Her Majesty Queen Kali Belladonna of Menagerie.”

Once again, but for very different reasons, Robyn scrambled at the last moment to maintain a straight face.

She had never  _ met  _ Kali Belladonna, of course. The royal family of Menagerie was famously close-knit, the High Chieftain and his wife rarely apart without extreme need. And Robyn had, until very, very recently, been a poor Huntress working the underground of Mantle’s most forgotten sectors.

Which was  _ exactly  _ why she was suddenly struggling to show no particular recognition, because while they had never met face to face, she very much  _ had  _ interacted with Kali Belladonna by proxy on a bimonthly basis, usually between the hours of one and four in the morning, on unmarked docks in the Mantle slums. Offloading, from civilian vessels legally registered in Vacuo, the most explosive ‘humanitarian aid’ on Remnant.

To an outsider, Queen Kali’s presence was an honor, but not an unexpected political move. Robyn was a known  _ faunus sympathiser _ —the irony—and Menagerie generally tended to support anything that shook up the societal status quo.

But considering they’d been funding and supplying her attempt at an armed uprising for three years, Robyn could only imagine what the Belladonnas had thought when they received the official notice that His Majesty James Ironwood would wed  _ Robyn Hill. _

She had been connected to Menagerie’s support via the White Fang, Robyn realized as Kali flicked experienced golden eyes over her in the kind of quick scan that would only register to another faunus. Ears, tail, shoulders, hands, then a closer look at her face for the subtle marks that betrayed chameleons or similar ‘passing’ faunus. After a moment, however, the reflexive search flicked back to Robyn’s waist; when it found nothing, there was a faint tightening of sympathetic pain around her eyes. Kali  _ knew  _ her contact was a fox who passed for human, she would know the basic story from so many years ago.

A firefight, a mission gone wrong, a vibrant white tail in the dark and a stray shotgun blast…

“I’ve heard so much about you...Your Majesty,” Kali said with a faint smile and a polite half-bow before stepping forward to clasp Robyn’s hand; no subservience here, among equals. After a very slight pause, she added, “In the last few months.”

Very subtle, thought Robyn, controlling a wry smile.

_ “Kiss her hand,” _ May said in her ear.  _ “She’s royalty.” _

Robyn obeyed, earning a faintly pleased smile in return. Kali nodded to the King, but turned back to Robyn as she said, “Menagerie has always maintained ties with Mantle. We’re more than happy to show our support of your union in person, and we’d like to formally recognize you as the rightful queen of Mantle and Atlas. But I won’t take up any more time with speeches.” She twitched one elegant black ear teasingly. “I can hear your poor courtiers’ stomachs growling from here. Later, Queen Robyn. If you can spare a moment.”

“I would be happy to,” Robyn said. Unlike everyone else she’d said that to tonight, she was genuinely looking forward to it. Judging by the wink Kali tipped her before turning to take her seat near the head of the banquet table, she was a little too transparent about that.

Kali’s ritual was the last of the miserable things; the moment the Queen of Menagerie had settled, waiters swarmed the room—an exactly equal number of humans and faunus, which might be carrying things a little far but for this specific event, the point had to be made.

Robyn’s attention was unfortunately drawn to the elaborate place settings. May had yet to switch her mic back on, but Robyn had gotten May to drill her on this, and she did remember the basics. It was a five-course meal, which was frankly horrifying in its excess as much as in its sheer obscene variety of forks. She was pretty confident, nonetheless, that she knew how this worked. Something about...soup courses don’t have associated forks, and to start from the outside and work in.

That didn’t look right at all, she thought, but she was trusting May’s advice as she cautiously placed a hand on the rightmost utensil.

She winced slightly as her earpiece crackled to life.

May’s voice in her ear was calm, quiet, and filled with murderous intent.

_ “Put. The oyster fork. Down.” _

* * *

All in all, things were progressing far better than James Ironwood had ever dreamed. They had gotten all the way to the salad course, and no one had even  _ attempted  _ to fight an honor duel standing on the table.

It would be stretching the truth too far to say that everyone was enjoying themselves, but not even the new Queen seemed  _ too  _ terribly miserable. He was grateful beyond words for Kali’s presence; the Belladonnas were always a refreshing, if occasionally infuriating, breath of fresh air. She’d managed to engage Miss Hill in a lively discussion of rent-control policy, and James didn’t have the heart or, frankly, inclination to suggest to either of them that they were making the landlords present nervous.

At least the food was good. 

James had, while backpedalling from Robyn’s fierce defense of her right to make catering decisions, at least managed to insist on a fusion between the cuisines of Mantle and Atlas. The fact that they were close geographic neighbors without distinct culinary histories meant his request had been met with awkward confusion from the catering staff. He was still not certain whether to thank Qrow or strangle him for the helpful clarification of “peasant food”. Robyn had looked  _ entirely  _ too satisfied with James’ discomfort, but she had also agreed with him.

Which meant the current salad was made with inland greens and the opening soup course had been a rich, peppery Atlesian dish made with arctic rabbit less common in Mantle, where time and resources for hunting were scarcer. The appetizer, however, had been a variation on Mantle whitefish pies, and Robyn had taken it upon herself to make the Atlesian elite navigate a pasta dish heavily featuring spiced mussels as the main course.

All right, James would admit it—he was rather looking forward to that free show as well.

Clover and Greenleaf were positioned on opposite sides of the banquet hall; ostensibly they were coordinating security efforts, but Clover seemed to be spending so much time nervously glancing at her that Greenleaf was the only one actually performing security checks. 

No one in Robyn’s retinue had actually asked to position her there, and James hadn’t been willing to risk shutting the plan down at this point in time. She’d displaced Marrow, who had awkwardly relocated to stand next to the doors. The rest of the Royal Guard ranged around the perimeter, checking diagonals, all but disappearing into the wall hangings.

James scanned the long table of nobles and foreign dignitaries for any imminent catastrophes. Thankfully, the diplomatic situation appeared...stable, if not without tension.

Menagerie was the only kingdom that had sent an actual royal in person; it was an unusual move, with Atlas so isolated. Vacuo had not even sent a delegation, only a cheerfully earnest letter from its Queen wishing them the best, lamenting the difficulty of safe travel, and informing them that Vacuo had waived the tax on the first four Atlesian merchant ships to land after the Crown received news of their marriage and James should take that gesture as a wedding gift.

It certainly beat the gifts they’d received from  _ Vale. _

A lovely decorative clock and perfunctory well-wishes had come from Mountain Glenn, which was not a major player on the world stage and was dealing with too much internal strife and too many Grimm to pretend otherwise. The Kingdom of Vale itself had not actually had a King since the Great War; old King Osmund’s last act had been to dissolve the monarchy, establishing a Council of...theoretically, equals...from among the seven major noble houses.

A Council that was currently headed by one Baroness Goodwitch, who—in addition to the trade goods and a matched set of exquisite black-opal jewelry that neither James nor his…wife…would ever have voluntarily worn but now had no choice—had sent a personal parcel with her own representative.

It had consisted of a blown-glass bottle containing a violently emerald-colored liquor that made James slightly lightheaded just popping the cork, and a note that read in its entirety:  _ Well, James, at least you had enough sense not to ask  _ me  _ this time. Please deliver this to poor Miss Hill. She’s going to need it. _

Glynda could always be counted on for a vote of confidence.

The Vale contingent was, to their credit, the only group except Menagerie’s that seemed genuinely happy to be here. Their head ambassador was waving enthusiastic hands, talking a mile a minute about adopting some aspect of Atlas’ rapid-transit systems, or possibly something about glue, it wasn’t clear; his jovial husband, a former Huntsman, had yet to pause his ongoing reminiscence to either breathe or pluck a bit of flaky pie crust from his mustache, but none of his neighbors seemed to mind that much. The Atlesians were making a passable attempt at pretending, for the sake of saving face in front of foreign delegates. The Mistrali diplomats had thus far failed to manage even that.

James took a sip of wine, delighted in spite of himself as he watched them try to engage politely with Robyn’s retinue. His first instinct, in arranging the seating chart, had been to put the two between the Vale and Menagerie contingents as an act of mercy; the memory of Robyn’s dark, chilly look at that suggestion nearly ruined his good mood, but he was able to admit that she’d been right. The optics of placing Miss Thyme—whose name he had finally learned—at the far end of the table next to the only other faunus in the room save for the Vacuan ambassador who had already been in Atlas…

Besides, it had been a stroke of genius to place both her and Miss Marigold directly across from the Mistrali diplomats. He had worried, at first, about its effect on the two young women; but judging by the bloodthirsty spark in Thyme’s eyes, and the staring contest that had been going on for two and a half minutes between Marigold and a Mistrali attache in rich silks, they were more than equal to the occasion.

He couldn’t  _ imagine  _ what had them so unhappy, James thought, hiding his extremely unprofessional enjoyment behind a bite of salad. Clearly, this wedding had everything the Emperor of Mistral loved—faunus sympathizers, inter-Kingdom unity… class mobility... 

No one, however, was as  _ utterly thrilled _ by James’ marriage as one Lord Jacques Schnee.

That he had been seated at James’ left hand, directly across from Kali Belladonna, was an immense honor; Jacques clearly viewed it as a trial that he was called on to suffer through with grace. He had grown more and more irritated as the night wore on and neither James nor Miss Hill were inclined to speak to him more than absolutely necessary. Well, James spoke to him when absolutely necessary. He was, unfortunately, closer.

Finally, however, Jacques had found an opening that the Queen could not reasonably ignore. Kali had said something about her daughter, who had gained quite a bit of attention for the unorthodox—though, as every Kingdom’s nobility hastily assured one another when they gossipped, thoroughly commendable in every way, an honorable profession, to be sure—decision to train as a Huntress. With Kuo Kuana having no academy of its own, she’d elected to study abroad at Beacon in Vale. Robyn had made a kind comment about the difficulties of that kind of distance, and Jacques had apparently scented blood.

“Oh, I can imagine. Are your family still in Mantle, Your Majesty?” His face was etched in false concern. “I was surprised by their absence in your wedding party.”

Robyn’s smile froze, but the direct question was too outwardly reasonable and had been asked just slightly too loudly for her to ignore this time.

Just a little too slowly, she turned to face him.

“You could say that my family are still in Mantle, Lord Schnee,” she informed him. Then, with no change in her dangerously soft tone, she added, “I’ll admit, I was surprised as well. Most of the other noblemen brought their own families. I know your wife has poor health, but are your children feeling well?”

Jacques’ mustache almost curdled, which was a  _ fascinating  _ thing to watch in real time. “Oh, my son is farther down the table. And as you well know, ma’am, my eldest daughter has important duties that sadly prevented her attendance tonight.”

That was  _ categorically  _ untrue, as James was the only member of the military who outranked Winter Schnee and he knew damn well what her duties were. What Winter had tonight was a laundry list of completely unnecessary troop inspections and a mountain of nonessential reports, already checked by officers four rungs down the command ladder, that she had been intentionally allowing to pile up on her desk for the past month specifically to avoid being seated at this table.

Robyn gave a mild, innocent smile. “My sincere apologies, Lord Schnee. I realized the guest list was exclusive, but we never intended to exclude your younger daughter. I hope there was no oversight.”

Jacques’ false smile became stiffer. “Not at all. She’s chosen to train as a Huntress. I understand you managed to pursue that... _ noble _ profession yourself, in the past, so I hardly need to tell you how essential it is that she focus on her studies.”

“Ah yes!” Kali said brightly. “I remember. My daughter mentioned in her letters home that she’s gotten very close to Weiss in their time at Beacon. Blake is on a team with Jacques’ daughter,” she added to Robyn, as if the media had allowed anyone not to be aware of that. “What a small world.”

“Ah yes.” James suppressed a groan at the oil in Jacques’ voice. He was going to have to step in now, before the man caused an international incident again. “I’d heard that the young Princess was also attending Beacon Academy. I’m honestly surprised that you were able to honor our kingdom in person, Your Majesty, considering her...recent scandals.”

It was a questionable definition of scandal. Blake Belladonna had been tenuously connected to a nightclub brawl and a fight on the Vale docks a few weeks previously, which hadn’t been the first such incident she and her team were tied to in her time at Beacon. But young Weiss had an airtight alibi for this one, so Jacques evidently felt safe using it as a barb.

Kali smiled, showing teeth. “Menagerie  _ always  _ has time to spare for Mantle, Jacques.”

Robyn’s eyes glinted; as a waiter whisked her salad away to prepare for the main course, she rested a hand delicately on her chin as she smiled at Jacques. “I hadn’t realized they were so close. Atlas Academy students generally don’t form lasting bonds outside of partnerships. You must be thrilled.”

Faced with the prospect of either saying out loud that nothing could make him happier than his daughter publicly rejecting his legacy and taking up with a Belladonna, or else actually admitting how horrified he was by the idea in public and in front of the Queen of Menagerie herself, Jacques’ face performed a series of contortions that soothed something deep in James’ soul.

Finally, visibly seething, he replied, “Of course.” His voice somehow managed to ooze.

“It’s certainly a breakthrough in inter-kingdom cooperation,” Robyn said, an audible grin in her voice. “And you never know, Lord Schnee, maybe your family will marry into royalty after all.”

Kali visibly fought to hide her laughter at the flash of apoplexy on Jacques’ face. James knew he hadn’t contained his shock at the barb; he hadn’t even had time to try. How Robyn Hill could  _ possibly  _ know that Jacques had tried very hard to marry Winter off to him several years ago, he had no idea; that had been well after their shared Academy days, when Robyn had for all intents and purposes vanished into the shadows of Mantle. The man hadn’t exactly  _ advertised  _ his humiliating failure at social climbing. If he had to guess, servants talked, and a  _ lot  _ of Atlesian servants had family in Mantle.

He honestly didn’t care. James had been fending off Jacques Schnee’s verbal slime at his dinners for years. It was high time the bastard was thrown onto the back foot.

Winter might regret begging out of this dinner after all, he thought as the main course was set down. She always  _ had  _ been a fan of skillful fencing.

Jacques bristled. James, enjoying his unexpected reprieve from having to shut the man up in public, settled back with his wine glass and thought, _en_ _garde._

“Oh, I don’t think Her Majesty needs to worry about that,” he said with a false, vicious self-deprecation. “By all reports young Blake seems  _ quite  _ taken with some country commoner she picked up from...well, the gods only know where. You may want to put a stop to such youthful indiscretions while you still can; I know I for one would _hate_ to see the Belladonna name...sullied.”

James fully expected anger from the new Queen. That dig about common blood had been entirely inappropriate, given her presence, given the significance of the day; Jacques Schnee was a guest at her wedding feast, for pity’s sake. James actually set his glass aside and sat forward; much as he knew he would enjoy whatever riposte she had in mind, it wasn’t fair to allow this to escalate any further. That any loss of temper here—and he had been watching the fury flickering like violet lightning behind that calm expression—would damage Robyn’s reputation further was only one concern. His duty, as King if nothing else, was to silence the man as harshly as he needed to before Queen Kali took true offense.

He was surprised, then, that Robyn’s only response was an expression of savage, victorious satisfaction.

James understood the reason why only a few seconds before it visibly dawned on Jacques what he’d just said and where.

As the nearest nobles of Atlas, Mantle, and even a convenient handful of high-ranking Mistrali delegates suddenly and determinedly found anything to look at that was not Jacques Schnee or the massive faux pas he had just committed, Robyn Hill just ran a languid finger around the rim of her wine glass and  _ smiled. _

It was possible, James was starting to realize, that a political alliance with Robyn Hill might just be more enjoyable than he’d first thought.


	5. Friendship Is Magic

“Absolutely fucking not,” Robyn snapped.

James pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to use the movement to cover a glance at the clock. Marital bliss had lasted nearly four entire hours after the guests dispersed, which was three hours and fifty-seven minutes longer than he’d anticipated.

“Miss Hill,” he began.

“Oh, don’t  _ Miss Hill _ me, Ironwood! You’ve got frostbite in your brain if you actually think I’ll let you take command of my team out from under me!”

“What did you expect?” James fought the urge to match her tone. “That they’d be able to just come and go as they pleased? If you want them with you, I have to give them  _ some  _ kind of official role.”

Robyn gave a low, mirthless laugh. “Oh, there’s a long way between  _ some kind of official role _ and conscripting them into the  _ Atlesian Royal Guard!” _

James managed, just barely, to avoid rolling his eyes. “‘Conscription’ is a bit of an exaggeration, Miss Hill.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He was beginning to recognize that the sweeter and more cheerful Robyn Hill sounded, the closer she likely was to stabbing him in the throat. “Would you prefer  _ impressment? _ Do you have a better word for coercing someone into military service? You realize the last time Mantle rioted it was to  _ abolish  _ a compulsory draft?”

That wasn’t technically true, as it happened; the  _ last  _ time Mantle rioted had been to abolish  _ slavery, _ with the draft ultimately ruled as being a form of ownership over sapient persons and therefore illegal. Even James had better sense than to argue the point at this precise moment.

“They’re perfectly free to refuse. But they will  _ not  _ be allowed to act as some sort of...private henchmen!”

Robyn’s laugh this time was more akin to the sound of a cat choking on a hairball. “Oh, as opposed to the Royal Guard, where they’ll be  _ public _ henchmen. The other minor detail being the fact that they’ll be under  _ your  _ direct authority. Personal agents are completely fine as long as they don’t answer to  _ me.” _

The honest answer to that statement was  _ yes,  _ but yet again James discovered that despite Qrow and Clover’s assessments in that regard, he did in fact possess a self-preservation instinct.

Instead, he folded his hands behind his back and gave Robyn a firm look. “I honestly don’t understand the hangup,” he informed her. “They’ll remain your Huntresses in all but name. A new uniform will no more make them loyal to me than any of this made you my wife. I am, as always, trying to  _ help _ you.”

_ “Don’t _ condescend to me, Ironwood,” she hissed. “You’re not stupid, except for the way you keep acting like I  _ am. _ The Royal Guard serves the reigning monarch. The Royal Guard is  _ legally bound _ to serve the reigning monarch. Technically, they’re not even allowed to act at all without your preemptive permission.  _ I realize you don’t enforce that clause!” _ Her voice rose as she threw up a hand, halting his instinctive protest. “But you can  _ choose  _ to at any point, you can countermand any order I give to anyone in that stupid uniform, and I am not creating a situation in which  _ my only supporters in Atlas _ can be thrown in prison at any moment!”

“Robyn,” James said reasonably.

“Oh, we are  _ not _ on first-name terms—”

“There has to be a clear chain of command—”

“With you at the top!”

Again, he just barely restrained himself from answering  _ Yes! Obviously! _ But Robyn seemed to read the answer in his face. Lip curling, she turned away in disgust, and James threw his hands in the air.

“I am still the King of Atlas,” he exclaimed. “In a crisis situation—”

“In a crisis situation, it will be more important than ever that  _ my  _ people are able to act freely!” she cried. “Without Atlesian red tape, and certainly without having to run to  _ you  _ and beg for permission like table scraps! I’m an active Huntress; my people stay with me, I have the right. And in case you’ve forgotten, I  _ am _ your Queen. You will  _ not _ treat me as one of your subordinates.”

James sighed but didn’t comment on Robyn’s confirmation that she intended to maintain her licensure. It wasn’t  _ unprecedented  _ for a monarch to keep up their Huntsman license, but it was certainly unusual, and all but unheard of to maintain  _ active  _ status that required a certain number of days per year actually performing Huntsman duties. 

He hadn’t expected any less, of course; still, it was yet another complication that she absolutely had not needed to add to anyone’s life.

“I assure you,” he said, patience starting to fray, “that I would never use the Royal Guard for any purpose that didn’t serve the greater good of Atlas  _ and  _ Mantle.”

Robyn visibly bit her tongue. When James opened his mouth again, she snapped a hand up, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly.

“I don’t doubt that,” she said, every word carefully pronounced and even more carefully neutral. “But your definition of the  _ greater good _ doesn’t exactly match  _ ours. _ I’m  _ suggesting  _ that it might not be in anyone’s best interest, especially Mantle’s, to bet the stability of two kingdoms on that changing any time soon.”

James crossed his arms. That was an eloquent, reasonable-sounding argument...on the surface, coming from the mouth of a populist revolutionary who’d been on the verge of open rebellion when he first tracked her down.

“That’s an interesting perspective,” he told her. Robyn’s eyes narrowed at his tone. “I’m curious. What _ exactly _ do you intend to do with your private, unregulated personal huntresses under the protection of the Crown, that it’s apparently so important I have absolutely no oversight or knowledge of?”

* * *

Joanna had to give Robyn some credit: it had taken her, oh, about four whole minutes longer than Joanna predicted to start yelling at her new husband. At least, loud enough to hear from the hallway.

Marrow Amin—the only faunus in the Royal Guard, which made him easy to remember even if keeping track of these kinds of things hadn’t been Joanna’s job—shifted unhappily.

“Should we…” His shoulders came up around his ears as one of the other jackboots shot him a look—the speedster, who seemed to be second-in-command after that cocky bastard with the fishing pole. “I mean. Should we...you know,  _ do _ something?”

“Like what?” May growled.

Harriet Bree rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Marigold,” she ordered. May bristled down to the tip of the ponytail she’d wrapped her hair into the literal moment she’d been allowed back out of the public eye, but Bree ignored her. “Nobody’s doing anything. Unless shit gets  _ really _ out of hand in there.”

“I don’t take orders from you. And define ‘ _ out of hand’!” _

“Shh!” Fiona scowled, one long ear pressed to the wood.

“Yeah,” said Bree. “You’re not actually supposed to do that.”

“Pretty sure that’s treason, actually,” Amin commented with a bright smile. “So what are they saying?”

_ “Marrow,”  _ growled Elm. “Don’t encourage them.”

Joanna crossed her arms, using her glare to dare either of the two women to take a step towards Fiona. Generally she was good at projecting an intimidating aura with her height, though Elm Ederne was the first woman she’d ever met whose height was even greater. Joanna wasn’t much a fan of that fact.

“Define ‘out of hand’,” she ordered.

Something shattered on the other side of the door. For a moment, most of them turned toward it.

“That’s... probably fine,” Bree decided.

Amin held up his hands, sidling between Joanna and Ederne in what was probably an attempt to break up their impromptu staring contest. He’d failed to account for the fact that they were both perfectly capable of holding it over his head, but Joanna had to respect the effort.

“Look,” he said, nervous. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“You  _ think?”  _ muttered Fiona, whose ear was now flat against the hinges. Whatever was going on in there, Robyn had stopped yelling, which was either progress or a  _ very  _ bad sign.

“Yeah,” May said brightly, “I mean, I’m no expert on traditional Atlesian greetings, but I don’t think a bolo in the night is very friendly. Joanna, what do you think?”   
  
“Not where I come from,” Joanna agreed. “Maybe us simple Mantle folk just can’t understand.”

“You were  _ committing treason,” _ Ederne pointed out.

“And don’t pull that  _ just an honest Mantle girl being bullied by the elite Guard _ crap with me,” said Bree, giving May a scathing once-over. “Junior line or not, the Marigolds are about as blueblood as you can get.”

“Guys!” Amin, shoulders still hunched, gave an anxious laugh. “We’re all supposed to be on the same side now, right? Clemency? Hare, come on, back me up here.”

“I don’t think  _ we’re  _ the ones who need reminding of that,” Harriet said flatly, clearly unimpressed.

“Oh is that  _ so.” _ May’s voice dripped with enough sugar to kill a horse. Ederne moved a hand to rest on the hilt of her warhammer; Joanna didn’t react except to shift her weight, ready to snap her staff loose at a moment’s notice. Fiona, still pressed up against the door, drew the bolt back on her crossbow without lifting it or opening her eyes. “Why don’t you go ahead and  _ remind me.” _

With a smirk and a whir of servo motors, Bree rolled her shoulders. “Thought you’d never—”

Fiona scrambled back from the door half a second before it was flung open, hard enough to ricochet off the wall and bounce back into Robyn’s waiting hand.

Eyes blazing, she flicked her gaze between the six of them in a rapid-fire assessment. May was doing her best to look innocent, which was how she’d gotten arrested on no fewer than four occasions and was doing her no favors now either. Bree hadn’t even lowered her fists from a guard position. Fiona was grinning, uh, sheepishly, Amin was holding his hands up in a frantically nonthreatening gesture, and Ederne was still glaring fiery death at them all from the other side of the doorway.

After a long moment, Robyn turned to Joanna for an explanation.

Joanna, without uncrossing her arms, gave an expressive shrug. “Bootlickers.”

With a long sigh, Robyn pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Right,” she said. Her voice was calm, none of the fury she’d been radiating for the past twenty minutes; but there was an edge to it that Joanna doubted anyone but the three of them could really hear. “You’re being folded into the ARG as the queen’s personal guard. We’re instituting a parallel command structure; you don’t take orders from Ebi, the existing Royal Guard doesn’t take orders from you. Joanna, you’re my guard-captain.”

May muttered something to the effect of  _ thank the gods. _ Joanna just met Robyn’s eyes and nodded, once.

“The Royal Guard answers only to the king,” Robyn ground out. “Which means the queen’s guard should only answer to me. Your responsibility is  _ my _ safety, not his, which means the existing royal guard is  _ exempt  _ from that responsibility. And from following my orders.”

Amin looked taken aback at the bluntness of the statement; Bree and Ederne looked satisfied. Fiona’s ears did something sharp and furious before she got them under control.

The King cleared his throat. “I assume I can trust the eight of you to coordinate duty shifts  _ appropriately _ amongst yourselves.”

There was a beat, and then Bree, abruptly remembering she still had her weapon out, dropped her guard and stepped back into a parade rest so fast that Joanna’s eyes couldn’t follow. “Yes, your Majesty.”

“Do we have to wear that stupid uniform?” Joanna asked. “White and blue are  _ really  _ not my colors.”

“Yes,” said Ironwood, at the same time Robyn scoffed and said “Of course not.”

The two of them looked at each other for a moment.

_ “Tomorrow,”  _ Robyn said, in a tone that did not brook argument. “I’m not arguing about the gods-damned uniforms on what is technically my wedding night.”

Ironwood sighed, rubbing his temple.  _ “For now,” _ he clarified. “Until alternative uniforms can be—”

“I said  _ tomorrow, Ironwood,” _ snapped Robyn. Wisely, he shut up. “Joanna? Do you feel up to first watch?”

Joanna shrugged one shoulder. “As much as anyone. Get some sleep, Robyn.”

Ederne folded her arms. “Yeah,” she said.  _ “You’re _ not standing watch outside the King’s chambers alone.”

Bree stepped between them. “Fine,” she said briskly. “You two, first watch. Then me and Thyme, and then Marrow and Marigold.”

“May first,” Joanna corrected. Partly to make a point—Robyn had just made it pretty damn clear that Harriet Bree had no authority to plan  _ their  _ guard rotations. But mostly because she’d seen Fiona’s careful lack of reaction, and knew how desperately she and Robyn were going to need each other tonight.

Bree, of course, only knew the first part. Rolling her eyes, she said, “Sure! Whatever. I’m out,” and Amin waved awkwardly before hurrying away in her wake.

Robyn squeezed May’s shoulder, tighter than strictly necessary.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For today. You know where you’re sleeping?”

May tossed her a casual salute, but put a hand on her shoulder in return as well. “Royal guard quarters make the Academy look like a barn,” she said. “Seriously though. You did good.” She grinned.  _ “Your Majesty.” _

_ “Ugh. _ Get out.”

May stepped back and made a dramatic bow. “As your Majesty commands—”

_ “May!” _

May cackled her way around the corner as Robyn, rubbing her face but finally smiling, turned to the door.

Ironwood cleared his throat as she moved to brush past him.

“Miss Hill,” he said carefully. “Before you turn in, if you could join me in my study. There’s...one last matter I wanted to go over tonight. Some paperwork,” he hurried to add as Robyn stiffened and Fiona visibly reached for her crossbow.

Robyn gave him a long, appraising look before nodding.

“Fiona,” she said. “Run a security sweep in my quarters, won’t you? This shouldn’t take long.”

With that, and having gotten Fiona into her bedroom right in front of her husband and the Royal Guard so smoothly that Joanna struggled to keep a smile off her face, Robyn locked the door behind her.

* * *

The integration of the Royal Guard was a perfect compromise, Robyn acknowledged; so, in the spirit of perfect compromise, it left absolutely everyone remotely connected to the situation seething.

Not entirely unlike the living arrangements, though this was one of few things she and Ironwood had been in complete agreement over.

It would be entirely too suspicious for two people supposedly  _ madly in love  _ to have fully separate living quarters, no matter how much they would both like to. Instead they’d decided on a communal living area with two private wings coming off of it. That way they still looked like a couple, and nobody would get their throat cut in their sleep. The whole thing was about ten times bigger than anywhere Robyn had ever lived before, but sadly she was going to have to get used to that kind of infuriating excess.

The shared quarters consisted of a sitting room, a comfortable library, a breakfast nook and a private dining room. It had taken Robyn nearly fifteen minutes of a vague, increasing unease before she’d finally registered what she’d been subconsciously looking for—namely, a working kitchen. 

She had to suppress a shudder at the memory.  _ That _ was something she swore never to get used to. Even in her Academy days, with three square meals a day and snacks provided, she’d had  _ access  _ to a kitchen.

The eastern wing was Robyn’s, with Ironwood on the west, identical floorplans allowing for a private office, bedchamber, dressing room, and a bath and a half—which was utterly, obscenely ridiculous, but if she pointed that out every time it was true she wouldn’t have time to eat. Both wings locked from the inside with a thumbprint scanner, at Robyn’s insistence. 

She’d been a bit too busy recently to pay much attention to interior decorating. Ironwood’s study mostly gave her an idea of what she absolutely did not want: Cold, sterile, emblazoned with the crest of Atlas, and containing James Ironwood.

“Sit down,” he said quietly, closing and locking the door behind them as he gestured toward the oversized desk.

Biting down her instinctive, irrational bristling at being given what sounded a lot like an order, Robyn pulled a straight-backed chair around to the side of the desk and sat.

_ Nice try, Ironwood. _ She wasn’t an Atlesian schoolgirl being called to the headmaster’s office anymore.

He didn’t seem to register either the power play or her dodging of it, however. Stepping around her, he sat down and unlocked a low drawer, withdrawing a large white folder embossed with the encircled staff of Atlas.

“Your wedding gift,” he said. Without further explanation, he offered her both the folio and a wry smile.

Robyn cautiously took it from him and began flipping through. It didn’t take long to get the gist of the contents.

_ “Divorce papers?” _

Infuriatingly calm, Ironwood inclined his head. “No contest. Only valid when signed and dated by both individuals, notarized, and, in this case, given a royal seal; you’ll notice your sections are blank and there are no dates.”

Robyn paused for a moment and thumbed back through the packet, noting the seal. “These  _ are  _ notarized. Without dates or half the signatures? That can’t be legal.”

The look he gave her was flat and deeply exasperated. “Given that this entire mockery of a marriage was arranged entirely to prevent your being executed for treason, I think drawing the line at  _ fraud _ is a bit much.”

Gods, she hated it when she had to admit he was right about something. “Why? What’s the point?”

For once, he didn’t give that long-suffering sigh; the look he gave her was even and serious.

“The point, Miss Hill,” he said, “is that whatever you may think, I am  _ well  _ aware of the power differential you’ve walked into. The fact that  _ I _ know I don’t intend to betray you means very little to a woman in your position. Were you ever to feel unsafe, should you ever feel a need to flee Atlas, consider this...a landing strategy.”

In spite of herself, and fairly certain it qualified as high treason against the Kingdom of Mantle to do it, Robyn couldn’t help a small smile. “Bailing out without being killed by the impact,” she acknowledged. It was a  _ really  _ stupid Huntress joke; but not a bad analogy, for all that. James Ironwood had been a Huntsman himself, as a younger man, she remembered. Before inheriting the first throne. 

“Keep them somewhere safe,” he told her quietly. “I don’t want to know where. I assure you, you will never need to use them.”

Robyn sealed the folio carefully, tapping it against the desk by reflex more than anything. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean that. And don’t worry, I know the perfect place. Was there anything else?”

“Not until tomorrow.” Ironwood stood when she did, making an abortive movement like he’d instinctively gone for a handshake. The thought was...amusing on a cosmic level, so Robyn let her lips twitch and held her hand out to complete the gesture. “I hope we can...well. Yes. Goodnight, Miss Hill.”

* * *

Deep in thought, Robyn closed the door to her private quarters and carefully sealed the electronic lock, testing the handle twice to be certain it was engaged. Then she slid home the deadbolt she’d had Joanna install for her, because she trusted Atlesian technology not to turn against her about as far as she could throw Clover Ebi.

So, a decent distance, but not enough to stake her life on.

She flicked her eyes over the diagonals and into the corners of the parlor, mapping out sites of likely security cameras; Ironwood had promised there wouldn’t be any and Fiona would have scanned for them, but the check was instinctive for anyone who’d grown up in Mantle, who’d been trained at the Academy. She flipped a switch to seal the picture windows, shook her hair loose of its simple updo, and finally let herself into the bedroom.

The sight of Fiona curled up in her blankets had never been quite this much of a  _ balm  _ before tonight. Or maybe it had been, and Robyn just hadn’t appreciated her nearly enough.

Even more of a comfort was the way her ears canted forward as Robyn closed and locked this door as well, and the reassuring lack of any redness in her eyes. She’d assumed...well, she knew how hard this whole ordeal had been on Fiona. She knew it was only going to get harder as they tried to navigate the secrecy that neither of them felt safe yet giving up.

The stack of fraudulent papers in her hand said that James Ironwood might be less inclined to overreaction—in this instance, at least—than previously assumed. But that was a lot to risk on a single gesture of good faith. Too much. Robyn’s entire world, several times over.

“Hey, lambchop,” she murmured. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better than I thought I would,” Fiona admitted, sitting up and holding a hand out for her. Robyn went willingly, pulling herself onto the bed and tucking Fiona against her side. “How about you? It’s okay if you’re not...okay.”

“I’m…” Robyn thought about it, and smiled slightly into Fiona’s hair. “Better than I thought I’d be. I have something I need you to do for me.”

Fiona nuzzled into her neck and whispered, “Anything.”

Robyn shifted to pull Fiona’s back against her chest, putting her arms around her and showing her the white folio. “I need this somewhere no one but me will ever be able to find it. Somewhere I can access it at a moment’s notice if I have to.”

Without a word, Fiona placed a hand flat on the folio’s surface. A ripple of golden light, and it was gone.

“What is it?” she asked.

Robyn couldn’t help running her nose along the base of one lovely white ear. “Freedom. If we ever need to run.”

“That’s good.” Fiona’s voice was faint. Taking a deep breath, Robyn forced herself to pull back instead of giving into the powerful need to nip at Fiona’s ears. It had been an emotionally complicated day, to say the least. The last thing she wanted now was to pressure her. “Robyn?”

“It’s all right,” Robyn soothed her. “I’m not asking for anything. I know today was a lot. I just needed you close, Fiona. We can just sleep.”

“Oh.” Fiona blinked rapidly. “Oh! Right, of course. Um. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Robyn ran her fingers through Fiona’s hair. “You got through the dinner? I know you said you were going to have fun with the Mistral delegation, but I know that must have still been pretty miserable.”

That actually got a slight giggle. “He had to call me  _ ma’am _ in front of a bunch of human nobles _. _ And then I asked what his family did for a living and I think May almost swallowed her fork.”

Robyn laughed. “See, I wish I could have seen that. At least Kali’s pretty decent for a monarch, but I had Ironwood and Schnee to deal with.”

“Heh. Yeah.” After a moment Fiona shifted, turning in Robyn’s lap until she could kiss her cheek. She bit her lip, then looked up, oddly shy. “You’re...you’re gonna be a really good queen, Robyn.”

“I’ll try.” Robyn let herself run her fingertips down Fiona’s jaw, but no more. If tonight was just about emotional connection, that was still a privilege to share. She refused to put any pressure on Fiona when she was already vulnerable. “At least we know I can still debate rings around Atlesian nobility, so that’s something. Haven’t had much practice since the Academy.”

Something must have shown on her face, however, because Fiona hesitated. Before Robyn could apologize for being distracted, Fiona shifted to face her more fully.

“Robyn?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Are you trying to be respectful of my boundaries, or do you actually  _ want  _ to just talk about politics in bed on your wedding night?”

Robyn opened her mouth, recognized the exasperated look in Fiona’s eyes, and closed it again.

“I was just being careful,” she said, appropriately apologetic.

“Oh,  _ good.” _ Fiona’s entire body sagged with relief. “Because you humiliated Jacques Schnee in front of the entire global nobility and made him thank you for it, and if I don’t get to eat you out for that then I’m actually going to die.”

Robyn’s eyebrows almost flew off her face. Moments later, when the shock of Fiona apparently being in one of her rare  _ forward  _ moods had passed, the surprise melted into a grin, and then a slow, predatory smirk.

“Oh, _ really.” _ Fiona flushed at the purr in her voice as Robyn gripped her wrists. A quick tug to press a kiss to her mouth, and then she tipped them over to trap Fiona underneath her. “Well. Maybe if you ask nicely…”


	6. Open Mouth, Insert Foot

“Feel free,” James said as patiently as he could manage, “to put pants on whenever you choose.”

Qrow grinned at him from where he still lay sprawled naked on the bed. “Oh, thanks for the leeway. I’m gonna use it to not do that.”

James paused, peered at the bottle of headache medicine he somehow needed after the previous night, and after some consideration tapped a second pill into his hand.

He knocked them back with a swig of water, paused, and took a deep breath. “For the _seventh_ time that I can remember...you are not allowed in the council chamber without pants of some description. We _are_ going to be late to the budget meeting, Qrow.”

“I think people can forgive you for running a little late after your _wedding night,”_ Qrow said mockingly. “And where’d this _we_ stuff come from? _You’re_ gonna be late to the budget meeting, _Jimmy.”_

“Yes,” said James. “That’s rather the point.”

Qrow shook his head in mock despair. “You think you know a guy,” he muttered, patting the mattress in a vague attempt to look like he was searching for trousers. “Marriage changed you, James. _Put your pants on._ That’s a new one. _Usually_ you’re telling me—”

“Qrow…”

“I’m just saying, it’s usually the other way—around,” he finished, muffled by the impact of a pair of black slacks being unceremoniously flung into his mouth. “Can’t _imagine_ what’s got you in such a mood this morning.”

“I’m not in a bad mood.” Nothing in the world was more likely to make James Ironwood feel upbeat than the prospect of a four-hour budget consultation with his entire advisory board and Her Majesty Queen Robyn of Atlas and Mantle. The title alone of which was going to take possibly the entire remainder of his life to fit right in his mouth.

“Uh-huh.” Qrow flopped forward on his stomach and propped his chin up on both hands. “Hey, just wondering if you forgot this whole thing was _your_ idea?”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“ _A political alliance to promote peace and unity between Atlas and Mantle,”_ Qrow said in an annoyingly good imitation of James’s cadence while he kicked his feet in the air. “I’m just saying, Jimmy. You’re already acting like she’s a mortal enemy just ‘cause she won’t kiss your ass. Last night you all but accused her of treason for not wanting her inner circle to answer to _Clover_ over her.”

James was starting to consider a third pill. “Don’t blow it out of proportion.”

“That’s what I’m telling _you_.” Qrow rolled over onto his back while keeping eye contact. “If you treat her like—well, like me—then she actually _is_ gonna poison you.”

“Sounds like I should be worried about letting you in my bed, then,” James said dryly.

Qrow rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, asshole. She’s your _queen,_ not your minister for Mantle affairs or whatever _._ She’s gonna say things you don’t want to hear and you’re gonna have to actually listen.”

“Somehow I don’t think Robyn is going to have much trouble making herself heard.”

“Your idea,” Qrow—who had progressed so far as to be actually _holding_ the pants—reminded him once again.

James sighed, thanked him for the reminder, and closed the bedroom door firmly behind him before crossing the sitting room into what it was probably inappropriate to think of as no-man’s land. There were sights that he doubted would put Miss Hill in a particularly good mood either, especially this early in the morning on her first day in the palace.

“Breakfast sausage?” Robyn’s voice asked from entirely too close.

“Wh— _excuse_ me?”

Several seconds of spluttering later, when James’ resting heart rate had returned to something less likely to ping maintenance alerts on half of his prosthetics, he finally registered the dubious expression on the Queen’s face. She was leaning casually against the wall, dressed in full Huntress gear and holding an uncut apple, very probably getting footprints on the silver wallpaper where a single boot rested against it.

Speaking slowly, as if to a startled horse or a very stupid rabbit, Robyn repeated, “Are you planning to eat your half of the breakfast sausages before this meeting, or do you just survive on a hearty breakfast of Atlesian superiority?”

“Ah.” James cleared his throat and straightened his perfectly straight tie before sitting awkwardly at the table. “No. That is—yes, I intend to eat before the budget commission.”

Robyn shrugged without shifting position. “Ah, well. Can’t win ‘em all.” She took a large bite of apple. “Morning, Branwen.”

Praying to every god he even vaguely believed in and a few others for good measure that Qrow was wearing pants, James glanced over his shoulder.

He glared.

Qrow, wearing a shit-eating grin and a full suit of clothing now, sauntered into the room and blithely ignored the lasers his King was glaring at him. Apparently he was perfectly capable of dressing himself for _other_ people.

“Your Majesty,” he drawled. Robyn visibly gagged on a bite of apple. Qrow winked at her. “Hey, if an Anima brat from Buttfuck, Nowhere like me has to get _my lord_ -ed all the time, you can deal.”

“Figured I was done with _hazing_ when I left the Academy,” Robyn tossed back drily. “You’re here early.”

Qrow clapped James on the shoulder. “Giving _this_ one a pep talk. You know. Play nice at school, don’t make the scary new teacher beat your ass too hard.”

Robyn snorted. James, in an attempt to maintain some kind of dignity, ignored them both.

“That reminds me,” Robyn began. James nearly groaned around his breakfast; her voice was innocently curious again. “What _is_ your actual job, Branwen? You can’t possibly be the royal spymaster. That position was abolished after the Great War, so of _course,_ the King no longer has one.”

Qrow laughed quietly. “Officially I’m the court jester.”

James snorted. Robyn, on the other hand, hesitated. After a long pause, she slowly extended a hand.

_“Hey!”_

Before Qrow could accidentally confess to any...violations of the charter of the Kingdom of Atlas that might _technically_ unofficially be tolerated so long as certain formal boundaries were maintained...James cleared his throat.

“Qrow is a Huntsman scout and security consultant employed by the Kingdom of Atlas and not myself personally,” he said, voice even. “A form of special operative working with the Atlesian military. I believe you were offered such a position yourself, upon licensure.”

Robyn looked back at him calmly, tossing her apple in the air and catching it one-handed.

“Well,” she said, no trace of anger in her voice. “It’s a good thing Atlesian monarchs can’t have unofficial private henchmen running around, then. Imagine how ridiculous that might be.”

James sighed. Qrow patted him on the shoulder again.

Today was going to go well. If they were very lucky, Robyn wouldn’t even kill anyone.

* * *

Robyn was going to kill someone.

“You cannot be serious.”

Ironwood massaged his temple, looking strained. Good. “Robyn…”

“Don’t _start,”_ she snapped. “I _know_ you have the budget for the welfare reforms I’m proposing. I did the math _myself,_ James.”

His face spasmed with a mix of horror and bewilderment that was, thankfully, mostly hidden by the hand over his face. Robyn’s sympathy was limited. She was aware of the need to maintain their cover and wasn’t about to blow the ‘besotted lovers’ thing on day one, but using his given name was as wildly uncomfortable for her as it was for him and _he_ wasn’t the one whose entire kingdom was getting shafted. 

“This Council,” Ironwood said, eyes closed, “ _does not_ have the resources for such extensive unemployment subsides and wage reforms—”

“Bullshit!"

“—at the present time!”

“How much do we have allocated for completely replacing entire fleets of perfectly functional airships?”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,”—and _that’s_ a voice that Robyn sure had never thought to hear again—“the Atlesian military now has to protect _both_ kingdoms. Your proposal is...very admirable, but it won’t do much good if Mantle falls to the Grimm as a result.”

Robyn turned a _very_ icy smile on _General Schnee._ “Now Winter, have you ever considered that raising our people’s quality of life will result in fewer Grimm attacks altogether?” Winter had the decency to glance away at that; it was an argument they’d had plenty of times back in the Academy. With one Schnee pacified, Robyn shifted her glare to the other in the room. “You know, once we lower the concentration of desperation and abject despair?”

Jacques Schnee had been just as quiet in this meeting as Robyn hoped after the way he’d fallen into her trap last night, but he still responded to a direct attack. “And I’m sure the people of Mantle will be less afraid once they have proper protections in place, your Majesty. But I’m surprised to see you so... _animated_ about this so soon after your wedding.” He flicked his eyes between Robyn and the King. “Not a long honeymoon, then?”

“That’s hardly appropriate,” snapped Winter.

Robyn, however, bared her teeth in what was technically a smile, the same way a rattlesnake was technically a musical instrument. “Lord Schnee,” she said lightly. “What _exactly_ do you think caught His Majesty’s attention in the first place?”

A few of the Council coughed; some of them sounded uncomfortable, while others were clearly trying to cover faintly embarrassed laughter. Joanna, in plainclothes this morning because come hell or high water Robyn would put off the uniform discussion until she and Ironwood were less likely to shoot each other, made no attempt at hiding anything. Her faint chuckle had the side effect of putting the Council slightly more at ease.

Which was good, because Robyn was nowhere _near_ done with them yet.

“Public works,” she challenged, mentally throwing down a gauntlet. She made a mental note to ask May if the bluebloods still did that, and if so, to order herself a gauntlet. “Kill two birds with one stone. Provide at least some relief for the poverty in Mantle, and get a start on that security grid upgrade we apparently _also_ don’t have room in the budget for.”

“Proposing ways to combine two programs into one does not solve the problem when we quite simply can afford _zero,”_ Ironwood explained tersely.

“You have _no idea_ how much money you’re pouring into your damn military, do you? Take a _sliver_ of that and invest it in the future of your people, and—”

“The Atlesian military _is_ an investment in the future of my people!” James exclaimed. “A future where they’re _alive!_ Robyn, we’ve been over this. This is exactly why Mantle’s security grids will have to wait for an upgrade, it makes no financial sense to spend time and money on low-level security when we could put that money where it will pay dividends against greater threats. Mantle now has the protection of the finest military in the world—”

Robyn wanted to either roll her eyes or scream. Well, what she wanted was to grab Joanna’s staff and beat the King of Atlas over the head with it, but that would unfortunately not improve the situation.

Instead, she cut in with, “And the best-funded, and it can afford to tighten its belt! Why are the poorest citizens of Mantle the ones making sacrifices for the sake of Atlas’ government and never the other way around? The Atlesian military would barely—give me the budget breakdown. I made notes.”

If she’d had the time in and around planning the stupid wedding she would have put together a slideshow. She was considering it for next time.

Ironwood and Joanna moved to hand her file folders at the same time. Joanna’s copy made the most sense to take—that was, in fact, the version with Robyn’s annotations. In the interests of politics, however, she gracefully accepted the version offered her by the king. Her main points were almost entirely committed to memory, anyway; and a quick glance confirmed that her instincts had been correct. This was an updated budget report, the formal final proposal and not the working document she’d been given several weeks back.

This meant the numbers were different, which annoyed her.

“It would have killed you all to keep me in the loop, I assume,” she muttered as she pulled up a calculator app on her scroll and began hastily re-running her analyses. “Don’t mind me, everyone, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She did not lose track of the conversation nearly as much as it appeared, but she let it wash over her a bit while she worked the numbers. The general mood was much more uncomfortable than it had been a few minutes earlier, which, not surprising after this little _lover’s spat._ It was almost like they’d expected her not to have a political agenda, or something…

Wait a minute.

Robyn punched that last calculation in again, saw it come out the same, and thought about that for a moment.

James Ironwood, you _rat bastard._

“Would anyone,” she began mildly. Conversation around the table stopped dead, and she gave a thin smile as the looks on their faces confirmed what she’d just determined. She didn’t look up, tapping the papers lightly on the table before setting them, very gently, in front of her. She began again. “Would _anyone_ care to _explain_ to me how it is that, with no record of the Kingdom of Atlas having raised taxes or sought a loan from any other kingdom, the Atlesian budget for the upcoming year has both outstripped its own tax revenue _and_ had a sudden increase of discretionary spending for the military?”

Dead silence. The only sound whatsoever was the muffled cawing of a black bird outside the window.

Robyn wrote down the discrepancy on a bit of scrap paper, circled it, and slid the paper into the center of the table.

“When I run these calculations on Mantle’s budget,” she said, very softly, feeling black rage start to build at the base of her spine and the fur bristle on what remained of her tail. “Exactly how much funding will be mysteriously unaccounted-for?”

One of the Council members cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he began in a sympathetic, reasonable tone. 

_“Can it, Sleet.”_ Robyn stood, hands braced on the table, and forced Ironwood to hold her gaze. “You’re skimming from Mantle. People are starving and you’re—what is _wrong_ with you?”

Ironwood at least gave her the courtesy of glaring back without flinching. “There is no legal or _practical_ reason not to combine the budgets of the two kingdoms while they are under the rule of the same person. The military needs additional funding in order to expand its defense of Mantle, especially in uncertain times. I recognize that you disagree with my decision in this matter, but it _is_ final.”

Stubborn _bastard,_ how the hell did she let him convince her she’d actually be allowed to—

Another, much more annoying voice cleared his throat to cut in. “Your majesties, I believe a brief recess might be advisable…?”

Robyn tightened her grip on the table and didn’t lift her gaze from her royal husband. “Why yes, Captain Ebi,” she said through clenched teeth, “I think that would be a fantastic idea.”

* * *

James was fuming.

Every time— _every_ time—he made an effort to do right by the kingdom of Mantle, this happened. What was he meant to do—nothing? It was his _duty_ as King to expand military protections and ensure the safety and security of the kingdom he suddenly found in his care. How many attempts to help her kingdom did Robyn Hill plan to rake him over the coals for? How many times did she intend to make him explain this—

There was a muffled thud against the council chamber window, followed by a string of loud cawing. James sighed and crossed the room to open the window a crack so the bird in question could hop inside. A blink of an eye was all it took for Qrow to switch forms, leaving him sitting with his arms crossed on the windowsill.

“James, you _stupid son of a bitch.”_

James threw his hands in the air. “Phenomenal. I’m glad to be able to count on your support.”

“You don’t listen to a word I say, do you?”

James bristled. “Of course I listen to what you say, Qrow!” He started pacing. “This is what I am _trying_ to get _her_ to understand. Just because you may ultimately disagree with my decision does not mean your input isn’t valued—”

“Hey!” Qrow’s voice was harsh. “Don’t talk to _me_ like a press release. You _don’t_ listen to me, and you sure as _hell_ aren’t listening to her, either. You nod along and look pretty and say you take her very seriously and then you go off and do whatever you were already planning!”

“Because it’s the right decision!”

“Yeah? How do you know? It’s just what you’ve always done.” Qrow waved him off in disgust. “Why do I even bother. You know, _I’m_ technically your chief advisor. And I can tell you one thing, the only advice you’ve ever taken is the kind that doesn’t require you to actually change your damn mind.”

There was bitterness in that. Admittedly, this was Qrow, but—that was beyond the norm, even for him. James frowned. “Qrow…”

Qrow didn’t want to hear it. “Seriously, James. Did you think making Robyn Hill the Queen of Atlas was gonna make it _easier_ for you to keep doing whatever you want?” 

Somehow, his headache was back. “I am doing everything I possibly can to accommodate her concern for Mantle. She has legitimate political influence, she has a seat at the table, more intelligence resources and access to the workings of government than any lone Huntress could ever have dreamed. Whatever you may believe, Qrow, I _am_ listening to her, but Robyn is an idealist, and—”

“And you expect her to just stand there smiling for the cameras so that Mantle will stop hating you,” Qrow finished, with sarcastic understanding. “Right, of course. She can have all the influence on policy she wants, as long as she doesn’t actually want to use it.” He stood up. “You know why I told you at the start this would be a fucking disaster? _Because I knew you would do this!_ Robyn isn’t the problem here, she’s the only one in that damn room making sense!”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. Before he could put together another retort, there was a knock at the door.

Clover coughed. “Sir,” he said. “If you need a few more minutes—actually, I’m not sure I can stall her.”

 _“You can’t,”_ Robyn’s voice confirmed from somewhere behind him.

“Yes, thank you, Clover,” James muttered. Beset on all sides, apparently. “Qrow, I don’t know where you came from, but I’ll see you—”

“Oh, no.” Qrow’s usual smirk, James realized abruptly, had been absent from this entire argument. “I’m staying. You deserve everything she’s about to do to you.”

Under her breath, Robyn muttered something suspiciously close to _you don’t know what I’m about to do to him._ By that point, however, the rest of the Council had also returned, and James took his seat with a carefully controlled expression. Clover positioned himself at his king’s left hand; Qrow moved to lounge against the wall, red eyes burning into James’ forehead.

“So, Your Majesty.” Lord Sleet looked nervous, which was to be expected; he glanced anxiously at Robyn, but oriented toward and spoke only to James. “The budget discussion. Did you...wish to begin where we left off?”

“Good question.” Robyn didn’t bother smiling this time. “Where _did_ we leave off?”

James took a deep breath, glanced at Qrow for a fraction of a second, and turned his attention back to Robyn. He was unable to keep a slight edge from his voice, but he did try.

“I believe,” he answered evenly, “That _you,_ my dear, were about to explain your proposal for a dual-kingdom budget overhaul.”

Robyn scoffed and opened her mouth to retort before the words visibly registered. Blinking rapidly, she turned to him with an expression equal parts suspicious and hopeful.

James raised an eyebrow and gestured down the table. He strongly suspected nothing would come of this—the budget was delineated this way for a reason. But, as had been so delicately laid out for him—even if only for the optics of the thing, he could tolerate giving Robyn the time to actually flex her newfound access to the Council.

After a long pause, Robyn inclined her head slightly.

“Joanna,” she said. Greenleaf stepped forward and handed her a thick manila folder; James made a mental note to revisit the uniform question at the first possible opportunity, it was important to resolve quickly. In the meantime, however, Robyn flipped past several concerningly detailed charts before settling on a cover page.

“I’ve identified several key areas in which I believe military budget cuts could be implemented without causing undue stress to either kingdom,” she announced. “First and foremost…”


	7. Don't Make This Weird, Christine

This was exactly why May had left Atlas in the first place: It was _boring._

Yes, all right. Mostly she’d left Atlas because it was totalitarian, isolationist, had the worst protections for faunus anywhere outside the capital city of Mistral, and was mired deep in a political climate that glorified the exploitation of the desperately poor. That, and her shitheel uncle had made it very clear that his offer to foster her in Atlas—make her a member of the Atlesian more than Mantle nobility—applied to a nephew only.

But mostly it was just _incredibly_ fucking boring.

The things she did for Robyn, honestly.

“Not used to standing guard, huh Marigold?”

May shot her counterpart on the door a glare and deliberately worsened her posture. Robyn had held out for a solid three weeks avoiding the uniform debate, but Ironwood had finally won that little power struggle. The uniform designs Robyn had commissioned were at least better than the white-and-navy of the main Royal Guard; a similar visual style but in muted spring green and earth-tone highlights, heavier on practical pouches and lighter on the jackboots. 

“Nah,” she drawled. “I’m used to actually _bodyguarding._ Not standing around looking pretty.”

Amin bristled, tail curling higher against his back. “Well,” he said, a little testy. “After going through the kind of rigorous training you need to be an _actual_ Royal Guardsman, you learn not to let your guard down. Even here.”

May smirked. “Oh _right._ All that fancy royal training, I’d forgotten! It must all be worth it, finally getting to stand in an empty hallway for six hours.”

He glared at her again. “If you don’t like it, I’m sure you have other options.”

May’s hackles going up might be less visually impressive, but you’d have to be a lot stupider than Marrow Amin to miss the warning signs regardless.

“Not anymore,” she said through her teeth. “And that _was_ worth it.”

Marrow watched her for a long moment, then visibly relaxed a little. “Look,” he said, “just because there’s six hours blocked out for this meeting doesn’t mean they’re _actually_ going to take six hours.”

May wouldn’t lie, she was relieved he’d recognized he’d stepped on a sore point and backed off. She grinned. “Oh honey. You really don’t know Robyn yet. This is a meeting on _public housing policy._ ”

* * *

This, Robyn thought cheerfully, was actually going quite well.

She glanced at the time. They’d gotten a full hour and a half into this discussion before Ironwood had to call for a recess for “everyone to use the restroom,” which translated as ducking into the antechamber to down some headache medication.

Branwen at least was on her side. He usually was in these meetings, which had come as a welcome shock. Unfortunately she was still eternally outvoted; the rest of the usual advisory board consisted of Ebi and General Winter Schnee, neither of whom had ever had an original thought in their lives. 

All right, Robyn could be reasonable—that wasn’t _quite_ fair to Winter. It was, however, a lot more fair than Winter thought it was. 

Qrow unfolded awkwardly to his feet to trail the King out of the room, shooting Robyn a subtle thumbs-up behind Ironwood’s back; Ebi left in the opposite direction, toward the actual restroom. Winter took a moment, thumbing through her scroll, to realize she was now alone with Robyn save for Fiona—who was positioned next to the high, narrow window more for moral support than any actual concern about an assassin coming through a twelve-inch-wide strip of glass on the seventh story.

Upon this realization her eyes visibly widened; she slid her scroll closed and hurried to her feet, and Robyn arched an eyebrow in Fiona’s direction before clearing her throat. “Actually, General, could you stay a moment? I wanted to ask you something.”

Winter froze partway to the door, shoulders tense, before spinning back around on her heel with a perfectly neutral expression. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Behind her, Fiona visibly fought off a grin. Robyn too, had to bite down on the urge to make a smug comment. Instead she reached in one of her pockets and withdrew an open envelope that still had a broken snowflake seal in blue wax attached. “I got this ball invitation from your father. I don’t actually have to _attend,_ right?”

Winter gave it a distasteful glance. “He’ll mark it as a sleight, but no. There’s not much he can do about it.”

Nodding, Robyn tucked the invitation away again. “But refusing will be seen as a sleight?” Winter nodded, jaw tight and refusing to make eye contact. Robyn leaned back deliberately, draping an arm over the back of her chair, and grinned. “Good. It’s intended as one.”

Briefly, Winter relaxed; the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. But then she resumed being as taut as Robyn’s bowstring.

Okay, Robyn had made a noble effort, but she had to bite. “You can relax a little, _ice queen_.”

Predictably, Winter stared even more determinedly at the opposite wall. “I’m fine. Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am.”

The words were out of Robyn’s mouth before she could even think about stopping them. “Oh, it’s been a while since I heard _that_ from—”

* * *

“She’ll be laser-focused,” said May. “No distractions. She can talk his ear off all day if he doesn’t break down and give her everything she wants first. For something this important? She won’t let anything get her off-topic for a moment.”

* * *

Robyn was not even slightly above enjoying how beet-red Winter’s face was right now.

“Ma’am, _please—”_

“That either!”

Off to the side, a snicker broke through Fiona’s valiant effort at a poker face. But when Winter turned her head to glare, Fiona was the very picture of angelic innocence.

Stiff and formal, Winter looked firmly at a point several inches above Robyn’s head. “If this is going to be a problem, ma’am—”

Robyn rolled her eyes. “I’m not the one making it a problem, Schnee. It’s been a month and a half and you won’t be alone in a room with me, this is affecting our working relationship.”

“We _don’t—”_ Winter bit down on her lip. “I’m perfectly capable of being professional, ma’am.”

“Oh Winter, that’s _never_ been as true as you think.” 

Winter glared at her before visibly forcing herself back to a blank mask. “I’m glad we’ve finally acknowledged the Goliath in the room,” she said, crisp and curt. “I’m certain it will no longer be a problem.”

Robyn rolled her eyes again. “There’s no Goliath, Winter. We had sex twice. Years ago, in the Academy, when we were both young and stupid? I genuinely didn’t think it was going to be an issue, but if you’re going to make this weird, then we need to talk about it.”

“I am— _try_ to curb your ego, Robyn. I am not _making this weird.”_

Robyn really, fully intended to let that monumental lie die a quiet and peaceful death and leave the General some of her dignity while she stewed in it. She really did. She really did intend to just let it go.

Unfortunately, that was around the point that Qrow Branwen rejoined them, adjusting his shirtsleeves as he casually dropped back into his chair.

“So,” he announced to no one in particular. “”What’s she making weird this time?”

* * *

Marrow rolled his eyes. “Her Majesty has definitely struck me as...thorough,” he said neutrally. “I’m not sure I’m at your level of hero-worship yet, though.”

May waved that off.

“Like I said. You don’t know Robyn yet.”

Marrow sighed. _“Please_ stop calling her by her first name. It’s weirding me out.”

At that, May had to laugh. “Oh, kid.” She grinned. “The divine right of kings is a hell of a drug, huh?”

Marrow spluttered. “That’s—no one’s actually _believed_ in that since—there’s no—I never said anything about the _divine right_ of anything!”

“Interesting how that works.” May picked nonexistent dirt off the edge of her staff blade. “Because, you know, if there’s no gods-given reason why power should pass down through a bloodline, why are we here?”

“Excuse me?”

“It just seems like we’re all pretty okay with this system.”

Marrow seemed to visibly age about ten years. “Right,” he sighed. “I forgot that was her whole _thing._ Not that any of you turned out to be, you know, super committed to it. Since you’re all here right now.”

“Ouch,” said May, agreeably. “In my defense, not my idea. _Someone_ broke down our door and made an offer we couldn’t refuse.”

Marrow gave an overly-bright smile. “Oh, _right!_ It took us, what, two seconds? I forgot about that. Since it wasn’t, you know. Hard, or anything.”

May’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you wanna go there?”

“You started it.”

May let herself glare for a moment before forcing it under control and cocking her head to the side. “You know, I was actually wondering how you all arranged that.”

May hadn’t given this kid enough credit. He could be _way_ more smug than he first appeared. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Hey, I thought we were _all on the same side now._ I’ll admit it, I’m not super experienced in being a jackbooted tool of the state. Could use some pointers.”

This time, Marrow was the one to give the mild side-eye. “Ouch.”

“You started it.”

* * *

 _“Nothing,_ Qrow.”

For some reason, the mere fact of Qrow Branwen’s existence seemed to get on Winter’s nerves. No wonder Robyn was starting to like him, despite all the extrajudicial spying she knew she wasn’t getting let in the loop on.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” He shot Robyn a quizzical look.

“It’s nothing important,” she said mildly. “I think Winter’s just having a hard time adjusting to taking orders from a…”

“Radical anti-government organizer?” Fiona supplied cheerfully.

“Right, that, thank you Fiona.”

“Now, now, Winter.” Clover Ebi rejoined them, closing the door behind him as he slid into the seat beside Qrow’s. “Try to resist the urge to put the Queen in chains and throw away the key.”

Winter turned a _fascinating_ color. So did Fiona, actually.

Clover spread his hands and looked between them. “Really. I know you’ve never liked her—”

“I wouldn’t say _never,”_ muttered Robyn over the rim of a glass of water.

“—but I know that, despite your skepticism—which I realize is your job—you believe in the King’s mission to make a better world going forward. This is a time to come together.”

Fiona made a very small noise through a perfectly straight face.

* * *

“Honestly May, no joke, I’m actually really curious how you ended up with...uh...you know.”

That was apparently as good as she was going to get on the whole ‘ _your worshipfulness’_ thing right now. “What’s there to tell? Wanted to make a difference. Robyn did too.”

“Enough to compromise on how she did it,” observed Marrow.

May couldn’t help tensing a bit at that. “I hope we don’t all regret it.”

“His Majesty’s telling the truth,” Marrow pointed out. “I mean—I know the Queen knows that, but—I’m just saying. He really is trying to do the right thing. He wants Mantle’s people to thrive.”

“Mmm,” said May. “He’s doing a _great_ job.”

Marrow at least had the grace to wince.

“I mean,” he said. “Yeah. That’s why we needed an actual Mantle leader. Someone the King respects, who knows what she’s doing.”

“Not that he respects her enough to just give her her head, obviously.”

May expected another witty retort, but Marrow just sighed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I think it’s been a while since he had someone _really_ tell him _no,_ you know what I mean?”

“I mean, he’s the king, so yeah. Nobility don’t really do well with _no.”_

A snort. “Yeah, you’d know.”

Now it was May’s turn to sigh. “You’re not wrong.”

He gave a half-grin in her direction. “Must’ve been a shock the first time Robyn jerked you up, huh?”

May gave a soft laugh. “She didn’t have to do it more than once, that’s for sure. And you’re getting awfully bold there about Her Illustrious Imperial Majesty Queen Robyn the First, don’t you think?”

Marrow looked a little confused, then after a beat his eyes went wide. “I meant—that was— _you tricked me!”_

“This hallway isn’t bugged, is it? Or am I going to have to report you for high treason, _Guardsman Amin?”_

For a second he looked genuinely scared, and May couldn’t help feeling bad; then Marrow’s brain caught up with him and, still a little shaken, he rolled his eyes. “I’m so _very_ sorry for my slip-up, _Lady Marigold._ Won’t happen again.”

With an aristocratic twist of the hand, May dismissed the apology.

“Oh, all forgiven,” she assured him. “I won’t even mention it next time I talk to _James.”_

There was a soft but audible _thud_ as Marrow hit the back of his head against the wall.

* * *

Clover glanced between the two of them.

“...General?” he asked. “Is it really that difficult to take orders from her? I know it’s not something any of us are used to—”

“Wouldn’t say that either,” muttered Robyn. Only Winter gave any indication of having heard her.

“—but I’m certain we’ll be more comfortable with one another as we adjust.”

“It’s not that,” said Winter in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “It’s _nothing,_ Captain, let it go.”

Feeling she owed it to the poor woman, Robyn stepped in to rescue her. “I don’t believe this is a question of the General having any issue with respecting my authority,” she began smoothly, suppressing a wince at her own accidental double entendre. “That is—hmm.”

Painstakingly neutral and staring at the ceiling, Fiona said carefully, “We’re overcoming some conflicts of interest.”

Robyn pointed at her, grateful for the save. “You’re likely aware that our time at the Academy overlapped. It’s just strange for both of us to be working together again.” 

Qrow shot a wry look at Winter, then at Robyn, and then back again.

“Right,” he said. “When did you sleep with her?”

Robyn’s complete non-reaction was, she realized an instant too late, the most suspicious thing she could possibly have done. Thankfully, it didn’t give them away, because Winter took care of that all on her own.

“That’s—how _dare_ —of all the— _get your mind out of the gutter, Qrow!”_

Fiona had too much field discipline to say any of the things she clearly wanted to, but her face sure was making some interesting contortions.

Qrow’s eyes widened. “I was _joking,_ Ice Queen. What the hell—”

“You impudent little—that is the most _disgusting accusation_ I’ve ever—”

“Hey!” Robyn had _tried_ to spare Winter’s dignity, but as usual she’d gone and blown it up her own damn self. “That is _not_ what you said in second year.”

The look of utter, anguished betrayal on Winter’s face was _almost_ enough to make Robyn feel bad. Almost.

“General.” Clover folded his hands on the table with a serious, concerned expression. “You know I respect your right to privacy, but—”

“Oh, quit being such a fucking _cop,_ Ebi,” Robyn snapped.

“I mean it. Winter, this is serious. As head of palace security, I need to know about previous...entanglements.”

“Different word, buddy,” said Qrow.

“...previous relationships, then.”

“We were never _in_ a—it was _one time!"_

Robyn coughed.

“...Two times,” Winter allowed begrudgingly. “It was two times.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ us this?” Clover demanded.

Winter somehow got even more stiff. “You _cannot_ be suggesting that you believe something this petty might compromise my loyalties.”

“Of course not,” soothed Clover. “I only worry that it might have compromised your mental health. We need everyone working at maximum efficiency for the good of the kingdom, and Her Majesty is right—you’ve been behaving oddly. And I’m sorry to have to say this, Winter—but as head of security, it’s not your place to decide what is and is not compromising information. Your duty is to inform me of any potential problems. This could have been dealt with sooner.”

Winter had, ironically enough, finally lost her cool.

“What _exactly_ was I supposed to say, Captain?” She flung her hands in the air; Robyn casually reached out and snagged a piece of paper before it could flutter too far away. “Good afternoon, my king. The military situation in the southwest remains stable, the Council wants to consult on the most recent budget report, I have some last-minute clearance checks on the wedding venue, and _by the way, sir, I fucked your wife!”_

There was a very long, very loud silence.

“...Um.” James Ironwood stood in the doorway, looking altogether at a loss for words. “Hmm. How long was I gone for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! No particular reason we took a break from this, we were just working on other things. This fic is always a delight to write for.


End file.
